The Chronicles of Violet

To my siblings, she is Mom, but to me she has been “Mother” for a few decades. I’m not sure why, other than the fact that my deep respect, awe and admiration for her brought on that title. She wasn’t a perfect Mother. But she was very, very near. Her work ethic was bar none to anyone I knew. Her creative talents were vast and her creativeness came out of necessity, and her desire to save money. Everyone knew she pinched pennies so tight that all of the eye’s bulged on her money.

I used to poke fun at her about her aluminum foil drawer, until I ran out of foil one day, and came to her to borrow some. She wouldn’t let me use the new foil. She said “I’d learn to appreciate how she saved if I used her slightly used pieces.”

I determined late last night that I would occasionally Chronicle my life with Mother. Mostly for my own therapy, and perhaps to help someone else in the midst of the trials of dementia. And so as not to forget these precious days that I get to spend with her.

She calls me, the girl next door, which cracks me up. I deserve that. For years I seldom spent much time with Mother, who lived next door. I’d run in and out when I needed to tell her something or someone would come for a visit. I was far too busy you know and truthfully I am somewhat of a recluse when I get the opportunity. But visiting was a big deal in the Hardway home. It was not just something people did if they were in our neighborhood. They deliberately came to our neighborhood because it was always good for the following:

• Conversation, genuine, let’s talk about how your life is going conversation.
• A cup of coffee and something “sweet.” Like applesauce pie or peanut butter cake.
• The next meal may not have been planned but it was on the table in unlimited supply, and you ate it at the table. Nobody was permitted to eat on the furniture, because that furniture had to last.
• Long distance guests were always encouraged to spend the night, and often did.
• The men folk watched sports in the living room, with the sound off, as Mother didn’t like sports and Dad loved Mother.
• The women sat around the table, as they were the last to eat and it was the order of that day. Children got their plates first, men sat in the best seats and finished their meal quickly so they could catch the game, and women could spin tales at the table and clean up the dishes.
• Dinner started with prayer, and Bible conversations were far more in depth and common than sports.
• Golly I miss those days.

Mother asked me yesterday if that man next door was married? She spoke of David, my husband. I said, “Yes, to me.” Her reply… “Really, that’s nice.” She asked me a couple of more times within that hour. Every meal I fix she tells me it’s good. I know then that she doesn’t like it, because if she likes it she tells me it’s great! But she is far too polite to tell me she didn’t like it. I’ve discovered that politeness has made Mother a habitual liar. In the nicest, classiest way.

I realize that there are as many forms of dementia, Alzheimer’s and age related diseases as there are flowers… well maybe not, but everyone’s different the way it plays out. My Grandmother Vada, who had Alzheimer’s, was occasionally grumpy, and would pinch someone who got on her last nerve. Mother has really only been contrary with Claire. A young lady who came for a while to help care for her. She was angry because she didn’t believe she needed help, and anyone new was obviously there to replace me, the girl next door.

Mother doesn’t know, she doesn’t now, until she does. Most of the time she just lives life in the present. But occasionally she will realize that there are words and memories missing. We laugh together about how both of our minds are slipping. She get’s frustrated that I cook, clean and wait on her hand and foot. She really has only herself to blame, that’s how she raised us! Violet is from another era of time that no longer exists in most American homes. A life of service. She served her husband, family, community and most of all, the Lord.

I needed to write this last night to begin the Chronicles of Mother Violet. I hope it causes you to reflect back on a sweeter time in your own life, and cause you to appreciate the people in your life.

Blessings! — Shari Johnson, Publisher of Ridgeview.