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After getting up obscenely early and failing to pack a couple of items and getting my son to drive me to the airport, I'm once again in Florida visiting my mother.
I've managed not to react when she plugs the holes in her memory with the name of some scammer that she latched onto a few years ago. And when she started talking about the contents of 40-year-old letters as though they were recent, I wordlessly showed her the date on one. (She responded with, "That's the wrong date!") And when she's been talking about recent interactions with long dead people, I look at Mom as if she's crazy, she says, but I don't say a word. In fairness, though, I belatedly realized that at least some of the time she uses her long-dead eldest sister's name to mean my eldest sister, the Evil one.
But that isn't where the drama is. The drama is at the edge of the street, where Mom's mailbox is.
First, she asked me to paint the mailbox and put adhesive stickers on it for the house number. I examined the mailbox: it's plastic. It won't take paint. She's satisfied with the stickers.
But then, because Good Sister encouraged it and because I was getting a little stir crazy, I got Mom to walk down to the end of her dead-end street and back. There was hobbling; she has foot issues. We were nearly at the front door when I made the mistake of trying to get her to step up directly onto the front walk*. She tripped and fell into the spindly rugosa rose next to the mailbox. She tried to use the mailbox to steady herself, but the rotten wood to which it was attached gave way, and the mailbox fell off.
She wouldn't let me help her up immediately. No, she crawled halfway across the front yard to a tree in the shade. She still couldn't get on her feet unassisted. I ended up grabbing her around the waist from behind to help her up. I then made sure the side door was unlocked because the steps there have a railing, unlike the front steps.
So I had to fix the mailbox. I got a 1'X1' board, sawed it in half, and reused the nails that held the previous board to affix the new board to the old post. And then the old post fell over. Not only was the old post rotten; it was wired near its base to a stout steel stake that had been pounded into the ground a few inches behind the mailbox post.
I got good and sweaty in the Florida early afternoon sun**. I could hear my father's ghost laughing at me. Mom reminded me that she hardly gets any mail anymore thanks to Good Sister's arrangements. That occurred to me while I was working, but I also know how Mom likes things tobe look just so around the house.
It also occurs to me that there are steps of similar height to the curb in three doorways entirely within her house. I thought she must have been wiped out from the walk, but Mom says she hangs onto the walls when she steps down the interior steps.
By the way, Mom's diet is crap. All she really wants to eat is sweets, ice cream, and booze. The caregivers bring her some healthier things, but "healthier" here is a pretty low bar.
And I can't hang out with friends in the evening: I'm the official night shift while I'm here. No leaving the house between 1900 and 0700. I must say, though, that I slept beautifully last night. It was quiet and dark.
Things I am doing while in Florida:
*Made by the hands of my late father from red brick. There was blood and a lot of swearing.
**Good thing I'm wearing a sleeveless skater dress & flip flops. Yeah, I love this part about being in Florida.
I've managed not to react when she plugs the holes in her memory with the name of some scammer that she latched onto a few years ago. And when she started talking about the contents of 40-year-old letters as though they were recent, I wordlessly showed her the date on one. (She responded with, "That's the wrong date!") And when she's been talking about recent interactions with long dead people, I look at Mom as if she's crazy, she says, but I don't say a word. In fairness, though, I belatedly realized that at least some of the time she uses her long-dead eldest sister's name to mean my eldest sister, the Evil one.
But that isn't where the drama is. The drama is at the edge of the street, where Mom's mailbox is.
First, she asked me to paint the mailbox and put adhesive stickers on it for the house number. I examined the mailbox: it's plastic. It won't take paint. She's satisfied with the stickers.
But then, because Good Sister encouraged it and because I was getting a little stir crazy, I got Mom to walk down to the end of her dead-end street and back. There was hobbling; she has foot issues. We were nearly at the front door when I made the mistake of trying to get her to step up directly onto the front walk*. She tripped and fell into the spindly rugosa rose next to the mailbox. She tried to use the mailbox to steady herself, but the rotten wood to which it was attached gave way, and the mailbox fell off.
She wouldn't let me help her up immediately. No, she crawled halfway across the front yard to a tree in the shade. She still couldn't get on her feet unassisted. I ended up grabbing her around the waist from behind to help her up. I then made sure the side door was unlocked because the steps there have a railing, unlike the front steps.
So I had to fix the mailbox. I got a 1'X1' board, sawed it in half, and reused the nails that held the previous board to affix the new board to the old post. And then the old post fell over. Not only was the old post rotten; it was wired near its base to a stout steel stake that had been pounded into the ground a few inches behind the mailbox post.
I got good and sweaty in the Florida early afternoon sun**. I could hear my father's ghost laughing at me. Mom reminded me that she hardly gets any mail anymore thanks to Good Sister's arrangements. That occurred to me while I was working, but I also know how Mom likes things to
It also occurs to me that there are steps of similar height to the curb in three doorways entirely within her house. I thought she must have been wiped out from the walk, but Mom says she hangs onto the walls when she steps down the interior steps.
By the way, Mom's diet is crap. All she really wants to eat is sweets, ice cream, and booze. The caregivers bring her some healthier things, but "healthier" here is a pretty low bar.
And I can't hang out with friends in the evening: I'm the official night shift while I'm here. No leaving the house between 1900 and 0700. I must say, though, that I slept beautifully last night. It was quiet and dark.
Things I am doing while in Florida:
- Getting a beer at the only gay bar in town, even alone, even if only for an hour.
- Arranging a real vacation.
*Made by the hands of my late father from red brick. There was blood and a lot of swearing.
**Good thing I'm wearing a sleeveless skater dress & flip flops. Yeah, I love this part about being in Florida.
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Date: 2021-05-28 12:08 pm (UTC)From:"All she really wants to eat is sweets, ice cream, and booze." I did threaten to eat chocolate and beer for dinner a couple of nights ago, but Debbie talked me down.
When we go to Florida the humidity about kills me.
My dad was getting so inactive in his later years he had a hard time swinging his legs in and out of the car. Perhaps that has subconsciously been fueling my constant need to hike more, harder, and further as I age into my sixties.