Friday, October 09, 2009
Driving to Minnesota
I’m on the long drive up to Minnesota, going to Mom’s house in Rochester. I’ve been on I-90 so often lately I know all the potholes through Chicago, the trooper zones in Wisconsin, the best coffee stops and the worst restrooms. What’s different this time is my passenger on the seat next to me. Not a person, but a sleek folder stuffed with glossy brochures, each touting the enjoyable services of a different South Bend nursing home.
Mom had called last summer. “I’ve got some not so good news,” she said. “My doctor says I have Parkinson’s disease.” Parkinson’s disease. Wow. So this is how its going to go. My mom, 82 years old, is a retired nurse who’d served a generation of patients at the Mayo Clinic and St. Mary’s Hospital. Back in the day when hospitals were quiet as libraries, hospital staff actually spoke in hushed tones and every patient received a back rub at bedtime. Mom starched her nurse’s caps on the dryer top and only spoke of her patients when I’d ask. “Oh,” she’d just say. “It was a difficult shift.” No drama, no gossip, no complaint.
So you’d think, after 20 years as a hospital chaplain myself, I’d have some advantage discussing health care decisions with my mom. But earlier attempts had not gone so well. “So, Mom,” I said, while drying the dishes last Thanksgiving, “I hear you saying the house is getting too much to handle.” “Oh, yes,” she said. “Well, what would you like to do,” I said, “if…anything would happen.” “I’d like to stay in the house, of course!” she said, snapping the topic shut like the lid on a medical sharps container.
So now I’m driving back up to the north country, to sell the family home of 45 years. And all the stuff in it. How can this be done? I think, as I stand in the garage with my hand on the darkened wood of my dad’s massive folding ladder, speckled with generations of house paint colors. All these possessions, rendered holy by use and time. I’d always imagined this process as a nice family affair: a ritual of moving, with stories, laughter, sorting and saying things like, “Oh, look, Mom. Remember this?” It hadn’t occurred to me that she might not want to remember all this. Or that there’d be no time anyways, between the flurry of meetings I’d scheduled with the bank, the realtor, older adult services. Sitting at her dining room table, Mom and I hold it together as a young man from a moving company explains the colored stickers we are to apply to each of her personal possessions. Red means it stays, green means it goes to Goodwill. Or the landfill.
The day before closing, I drive over to our empty house one last time and set on the countertop three sets of keys, the garage door opener, and a welcome card for the single woman who bought the house. With one hand on the doorknob ready to leave, I stand for a long moment in the sacred emptiness of the living room, where one Christmas Eve, Santa Claus himself had left this very door wide open in a burst of snow, jingling bells, and gifts strewn all around the carpet.
Now in the fall, I look outside the bare picture window, and a small movement catches my eye, high up in the half-bare branches of our old sugar maple. A single flaming leaf has detached and is twirling down in graceful flashes of crimson sunfire, spiraling through black branches to the ground. There, it comes to rest, surrounded by the whole cheering assembly of other leaves that have returned from a long and full life and landed in the vast embrace of their own great mother, the Earth.
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A random pick from more than 400 Michiana Chronicles -- refresh the browser to see another set:
April Lidinsky -- More essays by April
Jeff Nixa -- Driving to Minnesota / More essays by Jeff
Ken Smith -- More essays by Ken
Jeanette Saddler Taylor -- More essays by Jeanette
Heather Curlee Novak -- More essays by Heather
David James -- More essays by David
Elizabeth Van Jacob -- More essays by Elizabeth
Joe Chaney -- More essays by Joe
Louise Collins -- More essays by Louise
Jonathan Nashel -- More essays by Jonathan
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About the series
Michiana Chronicles is a series of radio essays by Jonathan Nashel, Louise Collins, Joe Chaney, Jeanette Saddler Taylor, Jeff Nixa, April Lidinsky, Ken Smith, Heather Curlee Novak, David James, and Elizabeth Van Jacob.
Michiana is the region of north-central Indiana and southern Michigan roughly centered on South Bend, Indiana.
Michiana Chronicles airs on Fridays at 7:35 a.m. and 12:30 p.m. on WVPE (88.1 FM), the home of public radio in Elkhart / South Bend, Indiana.
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Recent pieces
Beyond the Pole -- It has become almost obligatory for movies and even TV shows to work strip clubs and pole-dancing into stories that sure don’t need them for plot development. Don’t worry – I’m not going to linger on these dens of iniquity; my question is why, now, these scenes have become a narrative norm. Why in so many CSI shows or spy flicks does the female investigator or detective have a pole dance up her sleeve? (Not easy when you’re only wearing fringe.) We sure don’t expect our male heroes to break into Chippendales dances in every other episode. By April Lidinsky.
It Was a Dark and Stormy Morning -- Facebook is my grown-up playground where, in the comfort of my home, I meet friends old and new to share information, tell stories about our lives, and generally have a good time. These encounters are, by turn, fun, interesting, and sad; sometimes maddening; often poignant; and on many occasions have made me roar with laughter. Today I am here to share with you, dear listener, one of my very favorite Facebook experiences. My dear friend Matthew posted a single, simple sentence that elicited a string of exchanges among him, his friend Bill, and me that I believe is worthy of the Bulwer-Lytton award for worst fiction. By Elizabeth Van Jacob.
The New Wheel -- I was suspicious. I brought in a flat tire, and now I needed a whole new wheel? I drove over to the shop. The mechanic showed me the parts that had fallen off the hub and he pointed out that there was no way to reattach them. He had carefully checked the manufacturer’s website; he had spoken to the bike shop that specialized in this brand. So he repeated the bad news: I needed a new wheel. What did I know? He was the expert. By Ken Smith.
Trials of our Times -- What do I know about lawyers? Well, I harbored a deep adolescent crush on the floppy-haired lead in the 1970s TV series, The Paper Chase – does that count? What could be more romantic to a budding nerd than a show about late-night study groups and the adrenalin rush of the Socratic method? I barely noticed the near-absence of women in those classrooms; I was caught up in my fantasized quest to prove to John Houseman’s irascible Professor Kingsfield that I was up to his standards. You may remember that every show replayed Kingsfield’s threatening promise to his students: “You teach yourselves the law. I train your minds. You come in here with a skull full of mush, and if you survive, you’ll leave thinking like a lawyer.” By April Lidinsky.
Chronicle of a Death Told in Facebook Postings -- Elizabeth Van Jacob and Scott learned that, like creatures from a horror movie, Scott’s tumors have again repaired themselves and grown significantly. Scott will no longer receive treatment for his condition. We are meeting with hospice later this week. September 23 Elizabeth Van Jacob is taking a leave of absence from work effective immediately to live la dolce vita with her dolcetto amore. September 24 Elizabeth Van Jacob just shared the very last cherry tomato of the season with Scott in the garden that was ours and ours alone. September 26 Elizabeth Van Jacob is so very pleased that as Scott comes out from under the fog of the chemotherapy drugs, his inner light is shining through brighter than ever. September 27 By Elizabeth Van Jacob.
America the Interesting -- Even the neighborhood food shops aren’t as parochial as they used to be. Sixteen years ago, on my first evening as a resident of Michiana, I went to the nearest grocery store to pick up something for dinner. Someone at home had an unsettled tummy, so I asked the clerk to point out a few of the less spicy foods there in the deli case. “Oh, no, sir,” she said, “we hardly ever put spices in anything we make.” But now that same store has torn out the giant Aisle 1 racks of Technicolor jello salads and installed a fifteen-foot cooler of imported cheeses. By Ken Smith.
The Conundrum of Snow -- Soon after my move to Michiana, as I became accustomed to daily snow shoveling, I hypothesized that if I didn’t fall over dead immediately from the exertion, it might cause me to live forever. Anecdotally, I observed robust, 80-year-olds out there throwing snow. Heartening.
My son swears that when he was living in southwest Indiana, he heard a weathercaster exclaim with astonishment, “My God! It didn’t even snow in South Bend today.” So, as you grumble and crawl out of your igloo here near the end of this bumper-crop snowseason, think about how special having survived it makes you. Lift high your snow shovel and feel proud that we, the snow-shifters, are admired as a tough and vigorous people. By Jeanette Saddler Taylor.
Phone Call from the Other Side of the World -- My Blackberry started getting phone calls from overseas, or so I figured since the caller’s number was several digits longer than good old U.S. numbers. Presumably this was a friend or family member of the last person who was assigned my new number. I ignored the calls, but they kept coming, so one day I finally picked up and said hello. The person on the other end spoke a completely mysterious language. I said, “You have the wrong number,” and pretty soon he hung up. But he’d call again every couple of days and we’d go through it all once more. By Ken Smith.
Heading Toward the Finish Line -- As we near the time to waddle out of the major eating season of the year, I breathe a sigh of both thanks for the opportunity and relief that once again, it didn’t kill me. Starting with Thanksgiving and extending to Valentine’s Day, treats are the order of the day. My creative assistant, Larry, has offered the helpful suggestion that, like any major competition, we need to train for the season. Note now, you need to prepare. You can’t just go into this cold turkey. Beginning in late October or early November, we should begin to overeat just a bit each day in order to stretch our stomachs, so that they can accommodate the coming onslaught. He has named this regimen “The Stomach Pack.” Not such a bad plan, since there almost certainly will be quite a feast coming soon to a table near you. As Oscar Wilde said in The Importance of Being Earnest, “I hate people who are not serious about their meals.” This is crucial business. By Jeanette Saddler Taylor.
Christmas Eve, 1971 -- I ran in for some coffee at a McDonalds, and asked the lady if there was a VW dealership in Indianapolis. She pointed me only a few blocks down, by the bypass construction. We chugged over and turned in; the service bay was open—our first piece of luck. Out comes this short, round, greasy, cross-looking mechanic; working, on Christmas Eve. I explained our predicament; he glanced at her, in the full throes of dazed, dreamy pregnancy, and growled, “Pull it on in.” Dead battery; he and I had to push it on in. She and I moved to the waiting room. I sat and thought, how am I going to pay for this? It was Friday, they would deposit the check that evening and on Monday it would bounce and there was nothing I could do. Fifteen bucks in the bank; me in Atlanta. Overdraft protection was years away. By David James.
Feeding Willard -- Uncle Frank spent a great deal of his daily free time for years caring for my Grandfather. Frank would feed Grandpa Willard at least one meal most days. They would go to restaurants where Grandpa would drink too much and fall asleep before eating much of whatever it was he really liked that day. The whole excursion would take hours because Grandpa Willard was wheelchair bound and needed a special shuttle to travel anywhere. Despite all the trouble to arrange transportation, nurses and equipment Uncle Frank made sure Grandpa also got to his Dreamland cabin in the rocky mountains once or twice a year. He got him loaded onto a ferris wheel, to the opera, ball games and yes, to many, many restaurants. My Uncle took exquisite loving care of him for about eight years before Grandpa Willard died this Spring. By Heather Curlee Novak.
Two Boards (Upon Cold Powder Snow) -- It’s true, the year is ending, but lovers of winter sports know we’re just on the cusp of fun, as well as a chance to burn off some of those one trillion calories from holiday fudge. I’m a bit of a poser, really, in this camp of winter sports fans, since only in the past year have I ventured back onto the downhill slopes after nearly 25 years away. I grew up in Colorado, and downhill skiing is in my blood; it’s the beating heart of my family history. In fact, without skiing, I would not exist. By April Lidinsky.
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