Friday, December 8, 2006
My mother reads in bed before turning out her light.
Last night she finally finished one of the "Cat" mysteries that MCS sent her some time ago. I think this was probably her second or third reading of this particular mystery. She keeps going back to it, I think, because the cover is red. Anyway, to spice up her night reading and keep her from starting the same mystery yet again, I pointed out to her that she'd finished the mystery, which sat on the top tier of her bedstand, and pulled out books she's been collecting on the bottom tier for future reading. The last book was a history of Christmas I bought for her last year. I noticed that the jacket marked a point about a third of the way through the book where she had apparently stopped reading in favor of something else.
"Oh, look," I said, knowing that, in her role of Mrs. Christmas and in her acute awareness, this year, of the Christmas season, she'd probably be interested in the book, "here's that book on the history of Christmas. This might be a good time to read that."
"Oh, yes," she agreed, and reached for the book.
She opened the book where the jacket divided the pages, at the beginning of a chapter.
"You might not want to pay attention to that, Mom. It's been a year since you read the book. You might want to restart it."
She looked at me as though I was crazy. "Why," she asked, just this side of indignance, "would I want to read something I've already read?!?"
There are many answers to this question, of course, one of which my mother implied in the way she asked it, so I didn't bother to elaborate.
She called me into her bedroom twice during the half hour she spent "reading herself to sleep" to read portions of the chapter to me: One of which discussed the pre-Christian winter solstice feasts, celebrated as an act of faith that the following planting season would yield a plentiful harvest; another that talked about the growing European awareness, notably promulgated by Charlemagne, that warfare was always to be avoided on Christmas. After she read me the second section, she wondered aloud with whom this tradition began.
I couldn't stop myself. "It's probably in an earlier section, Mom. You might consider going back and starting at the beginning," I gently suggested.
"No," she said, "if it was there I would have remembered it."
You and I know "better", the lamppost probably knows "better", but my mother knows herself. Best, I decided to leave her to her remembrance of her memory. It may not be "better" than mine, but it is certainly more astonishing than mine, and much more interesting. And, you know, who knows what she might actually be remembering.
Which reminds me, speaking of her astonishing memory, here's a tidbit I've been meaning to post for ages but continually forget.
Some months ago when I read through Anne Robertson's journal, I came across a post in which Anne talked about a room blessing ceremony, performed on the day her mother moved into The Birches, an assisted living facility for those with Alzheimer's, and blanketing her mother's room with prayer. I was enchanted. I wrote Anne about my reaction, and told her of my intention to talk to my mother about this, since Mom is the daughter of a daughter of a Methodist minister, there are other followers of professional religiosity in her ancestry, as well, and I was curious to see if she remembered such ceremonies. Before I got a chance to talk to my mother, Anne wrote back telling me that Methodist liturgy has many such ceremonies, all contained in The Book of Worship.
This spurred me toward reading that post to my mother and asking her about her knowledge of such ceremonies. I was curious, knowing the extremely conservative bent of her grandfather's services that she often attended, especially when she lived with him during her college years, if she remembered him or any of her other pastoralized relatives performing such ceremonies.
She didn't and said she doubted such ceremonies were recognized "at that time."
"Well," I said, "wouldn't it be interesting if we could get ahold of your grandfather's Book of Worship and see if these ceremonies were recognized, at least in theory? Then, we'd know whether their use was simply out of fashion at that time and ignored, or whether they became a part of Methodism later? Do you know who might have inherited your grandfather's books?"
She thought about this for awhile but came up with nothing and mentioned that she doubted she'd remember. We talked, briefly, about contacting people who were still alive and had been closely connected with her grandfather and his children to see if anyone had kept those books.
The next morning, when she awoke, she announced, without being prompted, "I remember, now, what happened to Grandpa's books."
"Really," I said. "So, who do we write?"
She chuckled. "Well, that's the question. Sometime after I graduated from college, before I went into the Navy, Grandpa retired. Manette (her favorite uncle's wife, now dead) and I were there visiting and Grandpa asked us to clean out the attic for him. All his books were up there."
"Oh, excellent," I said, anticipating that she was about to tell me that Harold and Manette's surviving daughter probably now had possession of the books.
"Well, no," she said. "I remember that we tossed the books out the window. All of them."
"What?!?"
"Yes. He said to get rid of them, so we tossed them out the window."
"But, why? I mean, I guess I can understand getting rid of them, the gods know, I've gotten rid of books, too, but I take them to secondhand book stores. I don't understand tossing them out the window!"
"In those days, when you were getting rid of stuff like that, you threw them out on the lawn and someone would come by and pick them up."
"You mean, just anyone? Or, second hand book dealers or something?"
"No, no, garbage men."
"Oh, my god! All those books were thrown away?!?"
Mom laughed ruefully. "Yes, I'm afraid so. And notebooks with his sermons. And prayers."
I gasped and shuddered. "Was that okay with Grandpa?"
"Oh, yes, I remember him telling us to."
"No one wanted to keep them?"
"Well, we didn't ask. Manette and I certainly didn't want them. Now that I'm remembering, I'm sorry we did that."
We observed some moments of mournful silence.
"Well," I said, working hard to assuage my disappointment, "I'm devasted about the sermons, but I suppose we could find a copy of the same Book of Worship Grandpa used someplace, a library, or maybe from the Methodist church."
"You know, isn't it funny that I remember that so clearly," she said. "Like it was yesterday. It was spring, I remember. Manette and I felt so good opening up the attic windows and tossing all that stuff out. I remember stirring up clouds of dust and watching them float through the windows. I remember how good the attic smelled after we finished. I wonder why I couldn't remember that last night."
"Well, Mom, maybe you just needed to sleep on it. Your memory always works better when you're in a prone position," I joked.
But, the thing is, that isn't a joke. I've noticed this before. This was just one of the more dramatic episodes. I remember thinking a lot about this, that night. My mind also works wonders in sleep. It not only remembers incidents I thought had been erased, but sleep is such a reliable way for me to solve problems of all kinds that I often set myself up for solving a specific problem before I go to sleep. I know this is a fairly common phenomenon, no doubt the generation of the phrase, "Sleep on it." I just never imagined that this facility would continue to work within the context of a demented brain.
My mother's brain is not nearly as severely demented as that of many Ancients, but it is squirrelly enough so that I often wonder (and have often written) about the possibility that her episodes of demented phasing, happening so often, as they do, immediately after she awakens, are actually memories so startlingly presented in sleep that she is convinced that the events just occurred...not to mention my theory that when she connects with her Dead Zone Community, it's entirely possible that she actually did, and I'm the one in the household who's hopelessly out of touch.
Brains are such an amazing organ. I hope we don't abolish dementia before we are able to explore and appreciate the wonders of its multiple realities.
Later.
"Oh, look," I said, knowing that, in her role of Mrs. Christmas and in her acute awareness, this year, of the Christmas season, she'd probably be interested in the book, "here's that book on the history of Christmas. This might be a good time to read that."
"Oh, yes," she agreed, and reached for the book.
She opened the book where the jacket divided the pages, at the beginning of a chapter.
"You might not want to pay attention to that, Mom. It's been a year since you read the book. You might want to restart it."
She looked at me as though I was crazy. "Why," she asked, just this side of indignance, "would I want to read something I've already read?!?"
There are many answers to this question, of course, one of which my mother implied in the way she asked it, so I didn't bother to elaborate.
She called me into her bedroom twice during the half hour she spent "reading herself to sleep" to read portions of the chapter to me: One of which discussed the pre-Christian winter solstice feasts, celebrated as an act of faith that the following planting season would yield a plentiful harvest; another that talked about the growing European awareness, notably promulgated by Charlemagne, that warfare was always to be avoided on Christmas. After she read me the second section, she wondered aloud with whom this tradition began.
I couldn't stop myself. "It's probably in an earlier section, Mom. You might consider going back and starting at the beginning," I gently suggested.
"No," she said, "if it was there I would have remembered it."
You and I know "better", the lamppost probably knows "better", but my mother knows herself. Best, I decided to leave her to her remembrance of her memory. It may not be "better" than mine, but it is certainly more astonishing than mine, and much more interesting. And, you know, who knows what she might actually be remembering.
Which reminds me, speaking of her astonishing memory, here's a tidbit I've been meaning to post for ages but continually forget.
Some months ago when I read through Anne Robertson's journal, I came across a post in which Anne talked about a room blessing ceremony, performed on the day her mother moved into The Birches, an assisted living facility for those with Alzheimer's, and blanketing her mother's room with prayer. I was enchanted. I wrote Anne about my reaction, and told her of my intention to talk to my mother about this, since Mom is the daughter of a daughter of a Methodist minister, there are other followers of professional religiosity in her ancestry, as well, and I was curious to see if she remembered such ceremonies. Before I got a chance to talk to my mother, Anne wrote back telling me that Methodist liturgy has many such ceremonies, all contained in The Book of Worship.
This spurred me toward reading that post to my mother and asking her about her knowledge of such ceremonies. I was curious, knowing the extremely conservative bent of her grandfather's services that she often attended, especially when she lived with him during her college years, if she remembered him or any of her other pastoralized relatives performing such ceremonies.
She didn't and said she doubted such ceremonies were recognized "at that time."
"Well," I said, "wouldn't it be interesting if we could get ahold of your grandfather's Book of Worship and see if these ceremonies were recognized, at least in theory? Then, we'd know whether their use was simply out of fashion at that time and ignored, or whether they became a part of Methodism later? Do you know who might have inherited your grandfather's books?"
She thought about this for awhile but came up with nothing and mentioned that she doubted she'd remember. We talked, briefly, about contacting people who were still alive and had been closely connected with her grandfather and his children to see if anyone had kept those books.
The next morning, when she awoke, she announced, without being prompted, "I remember, now, what happened to Grandpa's books."
"Really," I said. "So, who do we write?"
She chuckled. "Well, that's the question. Sometime after I graduated from college, before I went into the Navy, Grandpa retired. Manette (her favorite uncle's wife, now dead) and I were there visiting and Grandpa asked us to clean out the attic for him. All his books were up there."
"Oh, excellent," I said, anticipating that she was about to tell me that Harold and Manette's surviving daughter probably now had possession of the books.
"Well, no," she said. "I remember that we tossed the books out the window. All of them."
"What?!?"
"Yes. He said to get rid of them, so we tossed them out the window."
"But, why? I mean, I guess I can understand getting rid of them, the gods know, I've gotten rid of books, too, but I take them to secondhand book stores. I don't understand tossing them out the window!"
"In those days, when you were getting rid of stuff like that, you threw them out on the lawn and someone would come by and pick them up."
"You mean, just anyone? Or, second hand book dealers or something?"
"No, no, garbage men."
"Oh, my god! All those books were thrown away?!?"
Mom laughed ruefully. "Yes, I'm afraid so. And notebooks with his sermons. And prayers."
I gasped and shuddered. "Was that okay with Grandpa?"
"Oh, yes, I remember him telling us to."
"No one wanted to keep them?"
"Well, we didn't ask. Manette and I certainly didn't want them. Now that I'm remembering, I'm sorry we did that."
We observed some moments of mournful silence.
"Well," I said, working hard to assuage my disappointment, "I'm devasted about the sermons, but I suppose we could find a copy of the same Book of Worship Grandpa used someplace, a library, or maybe from the Methodist church."
"You know, isn't it funny that I remember that so clearly," she said. "Like it was yesterday. It was spring, I remember. Manette and I felt so good opening up the attic windows and tossing all that stuff out. I remember stirring up clouds of dust and watching them float through the windows. I remember how good the attic smelled after we finished. I wonder why I couldn't remember that last night."
"Well, Mom, maybe you just needed to sleep on it. Your memory always works better when you're in a prone position," I joked.
But, the thing is, that isn't a joke. I've noticed this before. This was just one of the more dramatic episodes. I remember thinking a lot about this, that night. My mind also works wonders in sleep. It not only remembers incidents I thought had been erased, but sleep is such a reliable way for me to solve problems of all kinds that I often set myself up for solving a specific problem before I go to sleep. I know this is a fairly common phenomenon, no doubt the generation of the phrase, "Sleep on it." I just never imagined that this facility would continue to work within the context of a demented brain.
My mother's brain is not nearly as severely demented as that of many Ancients, but it is squirrelly enough so that I often wonder (and have often written) about the possibility that her episodes of demented phasing, happening so often, as they do, immediately after she awakens, are actually memories so startlingly presented in sleep that she is convinced that the events just occurred...not to mention my theory that when she connects with her Dead Zone Community, it's entirely possible that she actually did, and I'm the one in the household who's hopelessly out of touch.
Brains are such an amazing organ. I hope we don't abolish dementia before we are able to explore and appreciate the wonders of its multiple realities.
Later.
