Cruising....#2 Reflections on San Juan

Our first port of call was a late afternoon (far too brief) stop in old San Juan. Terry and I hiked up to El Moro through the narrow, steep, cobblestone streets, during an extremely hot afternoon. We viewed the signs of franchise civilization as an affront, though the residents proudly brag about their "Starbucks" and "Wendy's" as if they convey some kind of impressive status. We were far more impressed by the varied colors of stucco walls and the amazing mosaic tiled into stair risers hiding behind intricate wrought iron gates. Everything seemed tilted, so we gave up trying to take pictures that would look straight.

Turning a corner, we came upon a fountain jammed by kids, similar to the one I saw on the Rose Kennedy Greenway in Boston last summer. Kids and pulsating water--can there be a more joyful sight?

One lone policeman stood off to the side smiling as he agreed to have his picture taken by a young woman (his girlfriend?). I saw one father grab up his son, about 10 years old and run splashing with him into the water...it was a perfect Sunday outing for local families.

Just beyond the fountain we came to the huge und

ulating grassy field that leads to the fort. My immediate reaction to the sight was that every family in San Juan who wasn't playing in the fountain was flying a kite in the skies over El Moro.

The winds were brisk and there were more kites than could be counted, flown aloft by people of all ages--from children thrilled with their independence to young couples, dancing their individual kites flirtatiously with each other, 100 plus feet overhead. Triangles of every color and many sizes with long trailing tails bobbed and jigged on high. Families sat together enjoying the breeze and the view and whatever picnic they'd brought along. I briefly pondered the inability to actually do justice to the scene with my camera and Terry commented that if it was back in the states, there'd be lots of complicated styles of kites and you'd be able to tell who had more money by the elaborateness of their kite. Here they were all pretty simple and I couldn't tell the professionals from the laborers. Apparently this spot is a favorite for a day like this and we just happened to catch it alive with families.

Our last stop was for something to eat. We decided to try a small eatery based on their A-frame sidewalk sign, and the nice young man hawking for them. When we agreed to go in, he carefully led us through the dress shop and the men's shirts behind, to a four table restaurant in the rear, where he also seated us and took our order. The kitchen was up a few stairs to the side and I think his sister was the one waitress who brought our food. I got a chance to try Mofongo, which Terry's graduate student Christian had recommended as a local speciality. It was really interesting and quite good. Mofongo is mashed plaintains cooked with bacon bits and formed into a mound on a plate. You dip forkfulls into a bit of olive oil as you eat. It's probably not the heathiest thing, but very tasty. I also had a chicken Quesadilla and got so much food I couldn't finish.

Our leisurely walk back to the cruise ship was late enough on Sunday evening that most shops had closed, so we weren't tempted to buy anthing...only street vendors were available. I just wished we'd had longer to explore. Maybe someday I'll go back and I'll have a chance to get out of the city and visit the rain forest. Perhaps.

Cruising....#1

Cruising is such an odd way to travel. The elaborate design of the cruise ship creates a world within which we are encapsulated in luxury and comfort. Three tier dining rooms, and ice rink with a show (!), a room steward neatening up after us three times a day, entertainment and activities to suit every taste. A total disconnect is created with our real world selves (much needed by some) but unfortunately also from most of the hordes of people around us. Cruise lines have gone for bigger and bigger ships, so they’ve become a city afloat, and like a city, individuals become anonymous faces

in the crowd. I suspect it would be a wonderful way to travel with a group of family or friends, but as a couple, it’s actually hard to find others to interact with beyond the random dinner partners assigned to our table. For that reason I requested a large table hoping to meet a bunch of other people,only to have a mix up at last minute that sat us at a table for 6 with only two others in residence. An elderly mother with COPD and her adult son. They were lovely to talk to, but not what we’d hoped for in sharing our interests or wanting to join us for activities. Those we did meet on excursions seemed to be either younger folks headed to more active sites in a group of friends, or older travelers who complained when their every need wasn’t instantly accommodated.

I enjoyed the relaxation, the visits to ports, the time to read in a lounge chair undisturbed, and the time spent with Terry in conversations we never have time to share at home, but parts of this trip made me nostalgic for camping and for bed and breakfast inns where everyone talks to everyone else….a very different type of travel indeed. I returned rested and relaxed, but wishing I’d had more time in some places and more people who’d left an impression. More on those who did....in another entry.

Moral Compass Questions

Just thinking....

How is it that we develop the moral code that lies at the core of who we are? I look around and am continually amazed at much of the world that does not function with the kind of inner compass I feel so essential to my life. I wonder how I developed the certainty I have about right and wrong and justice. It's been a long time since I was a philosophy minor in college and thinking about such issues, but they continue to fascinate me even more with the enhanced vision of age. I look back on decisions made and obstacles overcome and wonder how I managed to figure out that doing the right thing brought its own inner reward. And I confess to being baffled by evil—especially those who, though greed, guile and inaction, cause such harm to others and truly feel no remorse, no twinges of conscience. No sense of responsibility. How can humans be so different from one another?

The Waking (Theodore Roetke)

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

I do learn by going where I have to go. All my life, I've felt like I was simply putting one foot in front of the other, making logical choices. In reality I don't think it's that simple. I'm by nature a planner. I spent my earliest years always focused on my future and making decisions aimed at goals I could barely discern. As an adult, I found myself in a difficult transition, slowly learning to focus on the present and to enjoy the moments I was actually living, as I was living them. The path ahead was important but how one moved through the present mattered too. Many times the steps involved a careful tap, tap, tapping of a toe to be sure the ground underneath was stable enough to stand on. Other times, it felt like one step backward for every two steps forward and excruciatingly slow progress.

Sometimes I've been stuck at an obvious crossroads trying to decide which way to turn, how to move forward in a positive, healthy way. With multiple disabled family members and the attendant emotional upheaval that accompanied key turning points, I spent lots of sleepless nights reflecting before acting. I guess I thought everyone did this. During those times, my personal mantra has always been to make decisions in such a way as to be able some time in the future look back without regrets, knowing I did everything I could have done.... to advocate for, to nurture, to stabilize, and to mend those in my care.

I guess what baffles me sometimes is the reaction, when I tell others my story. They act as if what I've done is unusual, somehow laudatory, while to me it just seems what any normal person would do. Why does doing the right thing, caring for others, doing your best, seem so unusual to them? Is my moral compass set to a different “north?” How does that happen? I know I am my parents' child, and that I absorbed my sense of justice and notions of integrity from growing up in their household. But I wonder, for those who reason differently, what did they see and hear that made them so?

What do you think?

Spring in Name Only, Except for the Birds

This is an odd time of year here on the Cape. March and April are spring in name only—mostly. Though our fall weather delights us with its long gradual slump into the cold, the days filled with warmth and color long after the rest of New England has bare tree limbs, the reverse happens in the spring. The trees and ground stay brown and bare for a very long time and though the days lengthen dramatically, it still feels like February lasts forever. Just this week we've had bits of snow, sleet, gale force winds and (surprise!) one day inching into the 50's to tease us. Only the increasing birdsong in the mornings and the fluttering of unusual species overhead as dusk falls remind us that spring is really here. The birds passing through and those arriving from warmer climes for the season, don't seem to care that it's still cold out. They have nests to build, meals to gather, and mates to attract.The birds are everywhere it seems. Two days ago, a huge flock of geese honked loudly on their evening commute over my yard from the golf course greens to Shubael's Pond. Coming into work today smaller dark birds were flying from tree to tree above my head, leaving me once again sorry that I could not identify them by their songs. There were, I think, at least three varieties singing.The two swans who wintered on the Mill Pond have been joined by at least three other couples, although they spend at least half their day with their heads under water eating the weeds that now must be growing again.

I was startled at Dowses Beach parking lot Wednesday by dramatically marked black and white ducks who were cavorting in the waves of the cut as if they were totally oblivious to the rain and cold wind that blew. They probably were. My problem was that the bird book was at home so I couldn't be sure if I was seeing eiders or mergansers (white back and black sides or black back and white sides) ....all I knew was they were so different from the usual mallards seen all year. Today on the other side of the beach I took a picture of a red-breasted merganser and his spouse, but I don't think it's the same bird I saw previously. Probably a cousin. In the parking lot, two herring gulls chomped on the innards of the shell creatures they'd dropped from on high, totally uncaring of any human observation. They rule, and they know it, but with no potato chips to steal, they're rediscovering their natural seafood diet....grab, drop, smash, devour. A timeless routine.The finches are returning to the feeders and one friend has already spotted her first osprey, down in the New Seabury area. Ospreys are a favorite graceful predator; we often can only see them through the web cams at the Natural History Museum or Barnstable High School. The platforms are built in several other locations, but it's harder to catch them in flight. I still vividly remember a chance encounter years ago watching one seemingly huge osprey swooping over the estuary, hunting, and returning with the fish in its claws. Like watching royalty in Mother Nature's realm.

Each season has its charms, if one takes the time to look. My recurring challenge is to make the time, take a step away from the everyday responsibilities, and really look around. And listen too. The new camera helps remind me that there is art everywhere and I need to find it to feed my soul. Today's venture out to South Cape Beach State Park yielded a huge

flock of swans in the marsh, huddling out the the wind, while male and female mallards hunted vegetation in a pool created by the high tide. Tiny birds chirped as we walked, and sometimes emerged from the tall grasses to dip in the air currents swishing around. It was midday so the most interesting visitors were not in sight. Maybe tomorrow a flock of swans in the marsh, huddling out the the wind, while male and female mallards hunted vegetation in a pool created by the high tide. Tiny birds chirped as we walked, and sometimes emerged from the tall grasses to dip in the air currents swishing around. It was midday so the most interesting visitors were not in sight. Maybe tomorrow.

Final Journey is Not the Whole Story

My Aunt Adele died on October 27, 2010. It seems like a very long time ago, although it's only been four months. I'm still finding myself dealing with the final remnants of paperwork for her; I sent in the final taxes for the year to the IRS and Massachusetts just last week. I was reminded that though caring for her was such a big part of my life for the last 4 years, I'd never written anything about it up on the blog. In fact I haven't written much lately at all....too busy living my life and taking

care of the people in it.

Adele was always my favorite of the relatives who came to visit us in West Orange. My

mother's younger sister, she was the dashing relative who lived most of her life when I was young, as a single, independent woman with a professional career as a nurse. For a while I remember she drove a yellow Austin Healy Sprite, a convertible sports car which made her the “cool” one and she often took vacations with a woman friend to exotic locales. I envied her and looked up to her. To my young eyes, her life seemed so much more exciting than my “poor” mother who was stuck at home taking care of us. Eventually Adele supervised an entire pediatric ward in Orange Memorial Hospital.

When I was in college, she married a longtime family friend, Gene Barraro, and moved into an antique house in Connecticut. Years later, in 1997, Uncle Gene and Aunt Adele moved to Cape Cod to be near me, bringing the latest in a long line of daschunds, Oliver and Sarah, with them. We saw each other frequently, and as Gene started to fade (he was 15 years her senior) Adele and I commiserated about both being well spouses (I was still married to Mark at the time) and the problems associated with that role. I divorced in 2000 and less than a year later Uncle Gene passed away in Florida.

I have told many folks that I am not sure when her dementia/Alzheimer's began, but I know she was fine in 2001. At the time she handled everything related to Gene's death by herself—paperwork, banking, taxes everything. We spent lots of time together during the 6 months each year she was on the Cape, and she helped meet delivery men at my new house and took Janai and friends for sleepovers from time to time. She also gave me her unvarnished opinions on the guys I dated, when I was serious enough to let her meet them. Upon meeting Terry, she opined that he was a “keeper” and I shouldn't let him get away!

The dementia came on slowly, creeping like a thief, stealing her ability to make judgments first and then her ability to reason all together. She hid the early stages from me quite completely. Gradually, over time, her outspokenness became truly inappropriate comments, and stubborn refusal to change any long held habits. I found myself handling more and more of her affairs, supervising whatever she'd allow. But a legal adult is hard to control. Her last trip to Florida should never have happened; when she went missing in her car down there, I found myself dealing with friends and the local sheriffs and the credit card handlers in Pakistan to track her down. All from 1000 miles away. She was found 250 miles north trying to enter an air force base. We safely got her home, hid the car, and I flew to retrieve her from Florida.

After that it was a precipitous downward spiral. I kept her in her little house in Centerville with services brought to her there for about a year, through the death of one dog and eventually the other. When she started wandering at night, despite staffing all day, all week, we moved her to assisted living, in a locked memory care unit where she was safe. I worried frantically about orchestrating the move, but within two days she'd forgotten she'd ever lived anywhere else. Within six months, her brain started to shut off circuits to muscles, forcing her to a walker and then quickly to a wheelchair. The incapacity and incontinence went from bad to worse and the move last May to the nursing home proper went quickly. She still recognized me, but over the summer she lost my name. I could tell the face was still familiar, but by early September, she had no idea who I was. She was quiet, unable to put words together, but still smiling when I showed her pictures of family members or my dogs. I'd bring a cupcake or decorated cookie, but the visits became so incredibly painful, that I'll admit I started going less frequently—stretching it out to sometimes 10 days at a time.

Two weeks before she died the staff and I reviewed the plans for her and our decision to do nothing if she became ill except provide comfort care, nothing to prolong her life in this condition. The docs agreed and when the final cold/pneumonia set in, it didn't take long. I visited her twice in the few days right before she died and sat silently crying at her bedside as the breath rattled in her chest. I don't generally pray, since I don't really believe in a sentient being hearing prayers and responding. Those days, though, I prayed/wished just for her to go home to Uncle Gene and her beloved dogs, wherever they might be. When the phone call came in the middle of the next night, I felt only relief.

Within days, my relief took concrete form—I was released to remember who Adele really was. The agonized form in the bed blurred quickly in my memory and my mind filled with pictures of

her smiling, toothy grin, and bright mischievous eyes. I had previously, when we moved her, stashed bags of her accumulated pictures in an upstairs closet. I took them out now and began to go through them—finding not only pictures I recognized, but some of her as a young girl with my mother, their brother, Arthur and some

with my grandparents as well. Some of these I'd never seen before. Pictures of her as a young graduate and another with her white cap and uniform smiled out at me as well.

I don't regret any of the caregiving, any more than I regret anything else in my life. I did the right thing, the best I could do at the time. As with all of the other illnesses and disabilities in my personal circle, I quickly became the family expert on Alzheimer's and dementia. I learned about the state of scientific knowledge (or lack thereof) and what medications do what. In the early days, I learned how to orchestrate services—like finding an online service where I could program a phone call reminder to Adele in my own voice to get her to remember her nightly meds, or a tracker I could place in her car with alerts if she went out of range, and a way to find the vehicle if she got lost. Later on I got skilled at listening to my instincts when it came to both choosing caregivers and making legal and financial decisions on her behalf.

It was never easy, often exhausting, but she was family—it's what we all hope family will do for us if it becomes necessary. And because we'd had discussions, I never hesitated at the end; I knew exactly what she wanted. That was a blessing.... Adele, Gene and the dogs rest comfortable now in my memory—happily together, where they belong.

Waterfront Delights

The very best part of the new Rose Fitzgerald Greenway in Boston is the ring fountain across from Fanuil Hall Marketplace. The water shoots up in patterns from the pavement and I never once saw that space empty. Terry took me along for his four day Americorps conference at the Marriot, adjacent to New England Aquarium, and located on Long Wharf on the redeveloped waterfront.

It was one of the hottest weeks of the summer and from noon 'til after dark there were people playing in the fountain. It's designed for play, with the water shifting in height and design making it a challenge to run through without getting wet. But everyone wanted to get wet, because of the weather. Moms and Dads sat on the stone benches making up the outer ring where the mist occasionally drifted, while kids of all ages scampered about trying to predict where the next spurt of water would shoot. Toddlers crawled looking totally startled by the water behaving in ways they'd never seen, while older children tried placing empty drink containers over the holes to see how far they'd rise when the water shot up. Sometimes, the calls of ,”Come on, Dad...come in,” were answered and a grown up joined the splashing crowd. This isn't the only fountain scattered around this part of the city, but it's the most popular one. Tourists in town for a week, Moms with strollers from the high-rise apartments nearby, and residents who brought their towels on the T from other sections of the city all come to enjoy this treat—better than an open fire hydrant and much safer too. At night we watched the fountain light up from below and the colored light sections shifting from red to purple to blue then green on the two-story tall sculptured posts nearby. A few kids still danced in the fountain, but left as a couple of the local homeless men came to cool off and wash away the day's grime.

This was my second trip in three years and over and over again I'm amazed that this part of the city charms me every time. I spent a day wandering the narrow streets of the North End looking into windows of restaurants with 8 tables, and window boxes full of flowers. Trying to get a straight picture on streets that never are straight is an interesting challenge.

The wharf itself looked best at sunset, with boats moored in the harbor and more along the marina.

I even found the littlest houseboat I'd ever seen—obviously custom made for someone's dog.

Parts of this part of town haven't changed in a hundred years or more, but missing now is the old central artery which bisected the waterfront from the rest of walkable Boston downtown for so many years. Gone is the noise and exhaust of so many vehicles. It's all been sent underground and now a visitor can happily walk from the water all the way to the Statehouse, along crooked streets, past historic landmarks and new steel towers, and somehow it all seems to work. I know the Big Dig wasted tons of my tax money along the way, and made the wrong people rich, but I can't help but be happy with the end result when I get a chance to go. It's the designers I really credit, for they knew how the space would be used down the road, and I and the fountain-loving children bless them for their foresight.

Mom then and now

My mother's life and perspective on the world often give me pause. I suppose it's not a surprise that we see things very differently as our experiences have been so different. With my dad she had opportunities to travel over much of the continent and even the world, but in truth she's led a fairly sheltered life. She went from being her parents' daughter to being her husband's wife in a time when women were mostly defined as wife and mother. Now, in her eighties, she is finally living on her own and, for maybe the first time, getting up each morning and deciding what she wants her day to be.

Though she's always had an open mind towards others less fortunate than herself, her life has been solidly middle class, cushioned mostly by comfortable means and a family without major long term dysfunction. I don't mean that she hasn't had troubles, but she always seems somewhat astonished by the obstacles I encounter in my own life and the fact that I cope with them without a major nervous breakdown. Maybe what astonishes her is that I've handled so much alone, when she always had my Dad to help with the heavy lifting in life. I look at her life and see a pretty normal stay-at-home mom, whose interests seemed to revolve around her husband's and didn't often diverge. Over the years I know she belonged to book clubs and had close friendships with several women who became important parts of her life, but every time any of us tried to encourage her to strike out on her own, go back to school, decide what she wanted to be when she grew up, she always deferred to my dad and they made only joint plans for their future.

She, I suspect, often wondered why I wrote about my dad and not about her, back when I had a profile of him published. I could never bring myself to tell her that though I love her dearly, I sometimes have trouble thinking of her separately, as opposed to as part of the couple—my parents. And that fact always made me sad. I know she worries about me and is grateful for the care Paul, Alicia, and I have shown since my dad died 2 ½ years ago, but she remains a bit of an enigma.

To this day I don't always feel like I know who she is inside. I know she still enjoys playing tennis with her friends, and chatting with her building mates on Sunday afternoons. I know her quirks and preferences in clothing and jewelry, but I don't know what shows she watches on TV when she's alone. I know some of her favorite recipes, but absent medical restrictions, I'm not sure what her favorite foods would be—except for ice cream. I don't know what kind of books she likes to read when no one is watching—or does she still read what she thinks is “nutritious literature,” because Dad and his friends would've read it? If she wrote in a journal along the way I've never even had a hint of what would be in it. I still wonder sometimes about the past, too—why she never seemed to react to my children like most grandparents do (even before the serious problems surfaced with each) and why she has never seemed to truly understand that I love them all. I long ago grieved the loss of the children I imagined I would raise and tried very hard to learn to love the ones I had. She's always kept a sort of emotional distance from it all, and I never knew why. Dad's reaction, mirrored in Mom? Not knowing how to react to disabilities she'd never faced before? Embarrassment trying to describe it to her friends? Emotional self-preservation? I have no doubt she's attached to me, and more recently to my husband, but to my kids??? I just don't think so. Strange. Most of my friends have parents who changed their lives to be nearer to grandchildren. She prefers them at a distance and always has.

Families are always a bit of a mystery. We are connected in such intimate ways and yet so separate. Perhaps her greatest gift to me has been her encouragement and praise for whatever new venture I stepped into. I know my own inner strength comes from my upbringing, and that my strong will and stubborn streak probably didn't make me a particularly easy child to raise. I was critiquing and debating the grownups as far back as I can remember. I know when I succeed, I make her proud, and I know that even when she doesn't understand my choices, she tries to support ME. Not all families can say that. It's a lesson that has helped me love my own children even when I don't always approve of or understand the choices they make either. Theirs may have more drastic results than mine, but the principal is still the same.

And my mom never expected my life to mirror hers—another gift. From the time I was young, I was expected to BE something (besides a wife and mother) and to create my own path. I certainly have done that. Making her proud of me always mattered and she always wanted me to think for myself.

I'd venture that she knows me very well, having seen me grow over my whole life. She's seen my values expressed through my choices and actions, values I developed at home. Along the way, I've shared my poetry and my other writing with her, but I just have never really known what she thought about so many things. My parents presented a united front for so many years that I find it hard now to think of them as separate individuals, as other than a unit of two. Once or twice in the past two years, she and I have had really deep and heart to heart talks. But now sometimes Irefrain from expressing my own concerns because I want to protect her from worry. Without Dad, she seems more fragile. Maybe it's age related, maybe it's an mistaken impression, but the roles do seem to be reversing more of late.

My mother is a big part of my life, even now, even though we're geographically apart, but her inner life remains always a bit of a puzzle to me.