As I was driving home from seeing my dad yesterday, I heard a song that really has always spoken to my heart, Cat's in the Cradle by Harry Chapin. If you are of my generation, you know the song well. If not, wander over to YouTube and check it out. It speaks of a dad and his son. In the song, the dad was always too busy to hang out with the son and as he ages and wants to hang out with the son, the son is too busy to be with his dad. Now the song speaks to me not because of how those family interactions were in the song, but because I believe both of my parents, in their own ways set wonderful examples of how to spend time with family.
When I was growing up, parents were parents, not playmates. Sure they made sure we had toys and things to do, but the interactions were not playful...siblings, cousins, and friends were our playmates. Mom was a stay at home mother of four who did what mom's do and dad worked in the office and then farmed and ranched in his "off" time. Not a lot of spare time for either of them to play. But what my parents did was show us the value of family. We visited our grandparents weekly, saw all of the cousins regularly, and what I think was most impressive, was how we stayed in touch with all of the "old" relatives...those great-aunts and uncles.
My mother's family was small, but I remember visiting Aunt Pearl in the nursing home every week. Mother's Uncle Jim lived in an apartment behind my grandparent's home. He was mentally challenged and eventually moved to Austin to live in a state home. I would travel with my grandmother, Nannie, to visit him and some of her friends. We did not think it odd to be on a regular visit schedule.
Dad's family was extensive. He had lots of living relatives in the area and some far away. We visited Great Aunt Ina weekly, as well as Great Aunt Mamie, and Great Uncle Mac. If we traveled to central Texas we stopped at Canyon Lake to visit Great Aunts Hilda and Louise. If we were in the East Texas area, we stopped and visited extended family there.
We spent Thanksgiving in Biry, Texas at Uncle Chester's and Aunt Sissie's ranch. And of course, we spent lots of time hanging out at home and in our own backyard with the cousins and friends.
Maybe not the best looking crew, but family and friends none the less. My parents believed in family. They believed that no matter what, you took care of those to whom you were related. You didn't get excuses because of the time it took or the fact that some of us may have been less loveable than others. You just did it because it was the right thing to do.
I tend to be a bit more like my mom when it comes to socializing. I don't feel like I have the gift of "gab". I like my quiet time, especially after being a teacher for so many years. I don't talk on the phone or just drop in to visit folks. However, I did make sure that my children grew up knowing their grandparents and great grandparents. We were on a regular visiting schedule. We tried to make time for cousins, at least to the best of our ability. Distance and work played a big part in the inability to visit other than major holidays. We weren't as close as I would have liked to all of our family, but we had each other in our hearts always.
When my mother's health began to decline, Hank and I found ourselves at their house daily. We took turns because we were both working. This continued after mom passed away and dad was on his own. There were times that I knew more about their life and health than my own. But I had their example of caring for their parents and loved ones to follow. I had to look for the flowers among the weeds sometimes, because caring for your aging parents isn't always a "flower garden".
Yesterday, when I visited Dad, I was reminded that old folks need their families. I guess the residents of dad's new home are beginning to recognize me as a "regular" because from the front door down the hall to his residence, I have found new friends. Maybe not by name but they now seem willing to accept me and talk to me. They are my new flowers. Because I only visit at certain times on certain days, I don't get to see their families. But I am saddened by the sign-in register at the front desk. It seems like the visitors are few and far between for most of the folks there. I know that most of them would like to "visit", in their own ways. You have to be accepting of the fact that those with memory loss and health issues will not "visit" like you expect. Some have difficulty hearing and some just don't seem connected to the world. But they all will respond in their own way. I have hands that reach out to me, some just stop me dead on and complain or ask about loved ones that I don't know. Some will stare and wonder who the heck I am and one or two will ask me every time, who I am and why I am there. Its okay, at least I have made some sort of impression on their day.
Dad hugs me now. He stands when I leave and gives me a full hug and holds on to my hands. We weren't a hugging family growing up. In fact, if dad had hugged me back then, I would have wondered who died. But this is the joy in visiting dad now. We have a physical, loving way to express our feelings. He may not remember the last time I was there, but he sure knows that I am there! And he always asks me to tell his family to come see him. He misses that life long connection to his loved ones. He always introduces me to his tablemates if we are in the dining room. Its a real joy that he knows me and wants others to know me. He is making some friends and shares his snacks with others. He and Vera (who is quite a character) slap hands as they pass in the hallway. I'm so glad that he is making connections in his home. He needs a family there.
I'm so fortunate that I didn't grow up like the song. My parents may not have played with me, but they sure taught me the value of family. As I look at all of my dad's new family at his residence, my prayer is that they too have family who will look in and visit and see those wonderful flowers.
What greater thing is there for human souls than to feel that they are joined for life-to be with each other in silent unspeakable memories. George Eliot
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