Tag Archives: memory

I Want the Frim Fram Sauce: Carrying Mom’s Music

Standing in the bathroom, notes of classical music grating on my nerves, I brushed my teeth after a visit with my mother, swaying and humming to a different tune.

“I want the frim fram sauce with the Ausen fay /With chafafa on the side” 

My niece emulated Pink. My son obsessed over the Chainsmokers and my daughter, Cheryl, stalked The Mountain Goats. Friends Nic and Em insisted on queuing up Neutral Milk Hotel. Even my husband had his favorites, the latest a pianist from the CSO, Jeffrey Kahane, and he cranked the classical music loud as ever while I took a shower, immersed in the sounds of an Olympic skating competition.

IMG-6294For me, I chose the Classics. The music of my mother.

But my route to the standards wasn’t straight. It was more like learning the steps to the chromatic scales.

I belonged the generation whose fingers were forced to march through the rigors of Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms at the mercy of piano teachers who rapped knuckles with wooden rulers or lived alone in homes where broccoli burned on the stove.

And I did so at the beck and call of John W. Schaum piano books, beginning with the Pre-A Green Book.

Then, if luck or practice, or Mrs. Scutt or Mrs. Bacon had their way, I was invited to master the piano utilizing the lessons presented in the A – Red book.

images-1I was a quick learner, mostly because I wanted to advance fast enough to be through with old John and my lessons. I tickled my way through the beginner books and soon was assigned the red book. And each week, I might receive a check or check-plus on my level of skill in mastering the masters and move on to the C – Purple Book or D – Orange.

I also bored easily.

One day, I discovered my older sister, Laura, had acquired a new piano book from the Driscoll Music Store down on Broadway in Lorain. The book was a combination of Broadway and jazz favorites from the 1950s and 60s. I seethed. Laura had been assigned more contemporary songs to conquer. Laura was a lefty and I would not deny she had been gifted with a bit more artistically than I had. Still, what my older sister possessed, I wanted for myself.

I picked up the book, As Time Goes By, with a rose centered on its cover, flipped it open, and plunked out the melodies to A Time for Us, The Impossible Dream, Moon River, Autumn Leaves, Jean, Jean. Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme, and Misty. I memorized the words that accompanied the melodies. Because the lyrices were there to learn.

When my mother heard me play, she tossed her dust rag on the floor, joined me on the piano bench, and sang along. She would pop out a few notes, or the whole song if I let her. Nervous around Mom or anyone else, I fumbled over notes or apologized, saying, “Sorry, Mom. Let’s start over.” It was a maxim we shared, one that captured our relationship succinctly then, and now.

Mom rearranged the furniture often in our home on Lincoln Street. Over time, she had the piano wheeled from the sea-foam green, sunlit living room to the high-traffic family room. She assumed one of her children would play the piano more frequently.

I played less. I relished the feel of the vacant, sea-foam green living room, alone, with an audience only I could identify. And, I didn’t want my mother’s singing to remind me of my own mismatched voice and how I couldn’t reach the nuance of the lyrics she crooned.

I had grown up and moved on to other pursuits. After junior high, I allowed my skills to lapse.

The book lay crushed beneath the Schwaum collections, and flute and trumpet sheet music, in the bottom of the piano bench, untouched for years.

During my first marriage, I acquired a piano of my own from Aunt Lynne. I asked Mom’s permission to keep the piano book of standards. My fingers soon danced again over A Time for Us.

The piano was forced into storage when I moved to Oregon. I broke the piano out of storage when I moved back to Loveland and installed it, of all places, in the living room, where the bright sunlight of the early morning streamed into another green room, this one a warm khaki, and enticed me to play from that same classic book, rediscovered beneath other musical failings.

IMG-6292Twenty years later, I found myself at my mother’s dementia care home where extracurricular activities (everything is extracurricular after age 90) centered on popular music, movies, and books from my mother’s era.

Recently, I read a social media post predicting what genre of music will be playing, when baby boomers, or post-boomers, like myself, lived in community with others once more.

One commenter predicted Dylan. And I had to break the sad news. Dylan was already on the playlists. Not because of the onslaught of boomers, but because of a few early-age Alzheimer’s residents who deserved to hear their music.

During the most recent music event at Arden Courts, a group called Wild Honey was contracted to play. Several times, I noticed the base player watching me sing along while he plucked away at his strings. I retreated into myself, embarrassed. He probably wondered what kind of 50-year-old knew the lyrics to those songs, Our Love is Here to Stay, April in Paris, by heart and whispered them into her mother’s good ear? What kind of music life did she have?

I wanted to answer Kesha. Or some EDM superstar like Odesza. Or The National. They’re from Cincinnati. Yes, even Neutral Milk Hotel.

But the answer was, I had none. Other than that acoustic space inhabited by memories of my mother’s music.

My children know to fire up The Boss when my time comes. For now, I work my way through lengthy Ella Fitzgerald or Frank Sinatra discographies and sing a few Nina Simone songs with Helen, another resident.

I departed Arden Courts with a little earworm or two wiggling around in my head throughout the rest of the day.

Like a spy, my mother and her first loves somehow planted those notes.

They are the seeds of Mom’s life that I carry now, along with the frim fram sauce with the Ausen fay with chafafa on the side.

I don’t want fish cakes and rye bread
You heard what I said
Waiter, please serve mine fried
I want the frim fram sauce with the Ausen fay
With chafafa on the side

Now if you don’t have it just bring me a cheque for the water.

– Visit the Nat King Cole video.

 

 

Advertisements

1 Comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Organizing a Mind – Writing Our Lives as Caregivers Workshop

Writing Our Lives as Caregivers 8-2017 (1) (1)-page-001When my mother began her slow waltz with dementia, I was living in southern Ohio, dancing in new love and blending families. Mom still resided up north, near Cleveland. Each time I visited, I had witnessed various versions of a mom I didn’t recognize. Each time I drove back to Cincinnati, I was steeped in the shadows of what was soon becoming, or had already become, the darkening of her memory.

The story of how she got from there to here has been the subject of poems, blogs and novels. But the narrative of writing as a tool to forge a new relationship with my mother is a story that is boundless.

Not long after I accepted (maybe not really) Mom’s stage in life, I had been listening to a podcast about an Alzheimer’s writing circle, begun by a well-known psychologist, Dr. Alan Dienstag, and famous novelist/playwright, Don DeLillo. I was prompted to undertake the same.

One day, sipping coffee with Leigh, a good friend from Loveland, I mentioned the prospect. She dropped a hint into our conversation.” If you ever do that, let me know. I might have some time to help.”

Thus was born Found Voices, a writing circle for individuals with mild to moderate cognitive loss who lived at the Alois Alzheimer’s Center in Cincinnati, a facility renowned for their approach in caring for residents, and also renowned for their costs.

The program director not only welcomed my pilot program. She connected us to the executive director, who promptly paid us well for such work. Little did either know, at the time, I had proposed the program to alleviate guilt I was accumulating, while not traveling the miles to see Mom.

For three years, Leigh and I plotted and planned out themes for our circle: Flying and planes. Summer. School. Baseball. Home. Love.

The participants who were with us those three years became dear to us. Mary Lou, Willhemma, Betty. Dotti. We embraced their lives and their hearts. Whatever life those residents had left to give, they gave their all.

That work that propelled me forward to write about my own mother. (www.findyouinthesun.com) That work became the seed in a relationship with Pauletta Hansel, Cincinnati’s Poet Laureate, whose own mother experienced dementia. And the two of us arrived simultaneously at the intersection of art and life. We have decided to stay there a while.

Last summer and winter, through the Alzheimer’s Association of Greater Cincinnati, we offered sessions for caregivers to write and share their musings and mutterings about their loved one experiencing Alzheimer’s or dementia. Or to write and share about the struggle in their own lives, as they contemplate a future without their loved one or a future that might closely resemble that of their mother’s, like I often do.

The poem below was excerpted from Pauletta’s blog, from our summer workshop.

The Alzheimer’s Association of Cincinnati has been enthusiastic in their support of our work. We will offer three caregiver workshops, two in coordination with the Memories in the Making program, and one trial run with professional caregivers, because they too have stories to tell, especially when they sit in for a family who can’t or won’t.

FullSizeRender (34)I have made a life out of my mother’s life. Not her past one, or ones, though I don’t know if she has nine or not. But the life I made has been created from her present one. It’s not the life I planned for either of us. My mother was the extraordinary organizer. She would have never tolerated an unorganized mind. But she tolerates me. And in the interim, I help others organize their mind and their love.

FREE workshops August 12, October 21 & February 10th. Sessions begin at 9 a.m. Each session is hosted at a different venue. Check the website for details.

 

This poem is a weaving together of snippets of writing from the participants of Cincinnati Poet Laureate Pauletta Hansel’s workshop at the Alzheimer’s Association of Greater Cincinnati on July 16, 2016. Innumerable residents of Cincinnati are caring for loved ones with dementia —mothers, fathers, husbands, wives. Their experiences of tenderness and loss are all too often untold. Credit to Pauletta Hansel for the weaving. Read more.
For As Long As We Can: Writing our Lives as Caregivers

There is much more hurting than healing
in our lives right now.
An incredible sadness.
Robbed of all this time,
many years, with my mother.
I let go of the colorful gal I once knew;
now her words cut through me like a machete,
leave a hemorrhage like no other.
All this before I even sit down.
I want so desperately to believe
God has a miracle for my dad,
for my beautiful Gina, in beautiful Bermuda—
how I would love to take her again,
away from the tiny world she knows
—and the bitterness of that impossibility.

I hold to every word, to every syllable,
to every streak of black
remaining in Mom’s soft white hair.
I know I am still her baby girl.
I cling to my old memories.
I don’t want it to change, but it does.
But then, a conversation—mother and daughter.
Mom hunched her shoulders
and walked in a silly way, making me laugh.
She doesn’t need that jacket on,
but she’ll wear it anyway,
singing “76 Trombones” and I join in.
It takes her a moment to connect
my place in her room
with my place in her life.
I know she is in there.
She looked in my eyes; I let her love me.
Mom was back,
but not for long.
The touch of your hand—unnerving,
unbounded by time.
At Mirror Lake in Eden Park
the air had cleared,
the colors of sunset filled the western sky.
Tiny blue gills swirled alone in lazy Van Gogh circles.
Heads together, giggling like conspirators
and wishing for more.
I am still comforted by your touch.
Moments—come and gone—
that would not have been
had we not been present.
Engulfing moments unborn, unknown by us.
A salve to put on the wounds part—
the baggage of the day
and my beat-up body,
the parts that broke,
under the pressure of loneliness.
I breathe deep until the next time;
I sink into the car
and think about doing it again tomorrow.
The contrast—the leaving,
the spent memories so different,
so contrary, so final.
Or maybe not final,
maybe this too will change.
I hold her strength, yet I cannot find her.
The joy we had, the hope
and promise of things to come.
I want to believe.
I cling to these prayerful words:
Relax, you are safe.
I will be here for you—not forever,
but for as long as I can.

From participants in Writing Our Lives as Caregivers
with Pauletta Hansel, Cincinnati Poet Laureate, and Annette Januzzi Wick
Alzheimer’s Association of Greater Cincinnati

2 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized