The meeting (redux)

I posted a picture of my mom and dad, the weekend they met 80 years ago next week, on this, the 8th remembrance of her passing. The picture seemed to have struck a cord with a lot of folks, so I am reposting (from my old blog) this account (approved by my mom when she read it) which was originally posted July 6 2005.

It was 1937.  July 4th weekend, Mount Freedom (New Jersey, I think). A resort of sorts. She was 16.  He was 18.

She was there with her brother and his friends as a thank-you for helping out in his office while his assistant was on vacation.

He was there with his buddies, Harold and Phil, part of an irrepressible boyhood trio that stayed friends to the end of their days.

She was watching some boys play ping-pong.  Her brother asked if she wanted to go along to watch some tennis.  "No", she said.  "I'm going to stay here and beat this boy at ping pong."

They played.  The ball bounced from side to side.  Quips and laughter also bounced between them.  The game ended.  I never learned who won.

She joined her brother for lunch.

He found his buddies.  Years later Harold told her that he pointed her out to his friends at lunch.  "Which one?", asked Harold.

"That one", he replied and pointed to her as she walked away with her brother.

"Ah," said Harold.  "The girl with the resonant buttocks."

It must have been quite a walk she had when she was young.

Later that day, she went swimming.  Suddenly, he popped up in front of her in the pool.  He'd done a stealth approach, swimming up underwater, to surprise her.  They spent the afternoon together, but he didn't show up at the dance that was held that night.  There is a picture of him with another girl he knew from that weekend.  Nearly 70 years later, she recalls that he never told her where he was that night and why he didn't come to the dance, but she suspects it had to do with the other girl.

The next morning she packed up to go home to Brighton Beach.  While her brother was checking out, she stood alone.  He came and joined her and asked if he could call her.  She gave him her phone number.  She was 16.  He was 18.  When he died, 44 years later, that scrap of paper with her phone number was still in his wallet.  "I still have it somewhere", she muses.

He did call.  And took the train forever and  a day from The Bronx to Brighton Beach.  They walked with friends along the boardwalk.  As they strolled, they met her father and uncle, coming back from their morning walk.  It was the only time he met her father.

He wrote her letters.  Beautiful letters.  A love poem that was a parody of The Raven.  She saved it for years, but then got mad at him one time and threw all his letters out.

"Are you sure you want to do that?", her younger brother asked.

"Yes!", she replied vehemently.

"You may marry him some day." her brother said.

"Never!" was her response.

Her brother retrieved the love letters from the trash and copied them in his own hand.  Sent them to the girl he would marry--who once confided to her that Her younger brother was such a good writer and a poet.  Did She know that  Her brother written a love poem based on The Raven?

She was furious.  "It was good stuff." her brother told Her.  "And you didn't want it.  Why should it go to waste?"

Their second date, they met at Cousin Ethel's house rather than him having to make the long train trip out.  And their third date, too.  After that, she knew him well enough to meet him in the city.  They dated on and off.  She went to College--Brooklyn College.  He took time off between college and starting Medical school to go to Albany.  He asked her to meet him at the train to see him off.  His whole family was there.  It was the only time she met his father.  "If I'd have known his family was going to be there, I wouldn't have gone!", she now confesses.

She was 16, he was 18.  They dated on and off, and she would get mad at him and tell him to go away.  He was too fresh.  But he always came back.  One night her aunt complained to her mother that she was sitting out on the stoop too late in the night with that boy.

"Mama," she said.  "Do you know what we were talking about?  We were discussing the dorsal dissection of a cat."

She'd send him packing.  He'd come back.  Other boys wooed her.  They didn't win her.  For, suddenly, one day, she realized she loved him dearly.  And couldn't live her life without him.  When he'd hear her tell the story, he'd smile.  He knew, you see.  He knew from that first day.  When she was 16 and he was 18.

Pictures from the Mt Freedom Weekend. She made the sundress she was wearing. He probably threw the game to talk to her some more

A Dream Come True

My mother married my dad in 1943. She was true to him to her death in 2009. He was the love of her life. But in all honesty, she had another love, that she met in 1962 and then, in 1986 travelled back to see again: The Grand Canyon.

I was 5 when my family bundled into our sky blue Country Squire station wagon, and drove across the country stopping at as many national parks as we could between our home in Silver Spring, Maryland and our destination in California. My mother's excitement as we approached Grand Canyon National Park was palpable. The set up for visitors in 1962 was a little a bit different than it is now, I'm told. We bundled out of the car, tired from our journey. My mother, an amateur geologist and enthusiastic rock hound, looked off in the distance, and sighed with joy, until my brother tapped her on the shoulder and suggested she turn around. What she turned to see was the full beauty of that aptly named canyon, truly grand. It took her breath, her speech away, and she wept fro the sheer glory of it.

She spoke of its beauty the rest of her life. She and my father planned to travel back for their 40th anniversary. When he died in 1981, 2 years shy of that anticipated time, she thought this meant she'd never get back.  But returning to the Grand Canyon was a dream, one she fulfilled five years later with the help of my brother, Erico, and his wonderful wife, Heather.

Erico and Ruthe on the Rim of the Canyon

It was not the trip you might expect. My mother had Multiple Sclerosis, and at that time, was in a wheelchair, only able to walk short distances. True, she did exercises every day to help maintain strength and muscle tone, but she also needed at least one nap a day to restore her energy. What they'd planned, with the help of the park service, was quite amazing. They spent a couple of days on the surface, resting and preparing, then, with the assistance of the rangers and staff, Heather, Erico, and Ruthe joined a mule team, and rode down the canyon. Ruthe, who really had never ridden a horse, who had multiple sclerosis, and lacked leg strength and balance, who wore corrective glasses to hep combat her diplopia, got on a white mule named Miss Piggy and rode to the bottom of the Grand Canyon.

Ruthe and Heather Prepare for the Descent

The trip was both beautiful and breathtaking. Ruthe was placed in line immediately behind the lead guide, with Heather following her. Heather told me, when we got together after the journey, that Ruthe got so tired at times that Heather would look at her, slumped on the mule, then look to the side and see the drop off to the Canyon floor below, and wonder how long it would take her to jump off her mule and catch Ruthe as she slid off her own mount. When not calculating that, she would wonder how to tell those of us not on the trip that Ruthe had slipped off the mule and fallen to the river below. But just when Heather thought her tiny mother-in-law was about to put the calculations to the test, Ruthe would straighten, and then turn around a flash a beaming smile at Heather. 

That's my mom, beaming!

They made it to the bottom safely. I'm not entirely sure, but I do think Ruthe was airlifted out rather than riding back up. (I'm scanning family pictures now, and in the album, all the pictures on mule are in a descent, then the bottom, then taken from a helicopter.) I do seem to recall that once back up, there was another rest period, then travel to California for a mini family reunion, which javaczuk and I were able to fly out and join for a few days. 

She made it! At the Colorado river

The US National Park Service is celebrating its Centennial anniversary. All summer long, I've been enjoying social media images of the glories that one can discover in the parks part of the diverse system. But none of those images, as spectacular as they are, have made me as happy as discovering the pictures taken on that 1986 trip.

As a side note: In going through the boxes of memorabilia this summer, I found this letter to my mom from Grand Canyon National Park Lodges.

It's ok. Not her address any more...

To Ruthe, one of the highlights of her life was riding a mule down that "gorgeous hunk of rock." To me, the Grand Canyon wasn't the only thing that was grand or inspiring on that journey. 

Georgette Heyer: A Love Story

My mother was a reader. Her tastes, like those of her daughter, were eclectic. But if push came to shove, she could name a few favored authors: Jane Austen, Robertson Davies, Anthony Trollope, George Eliott, Dorothy L. Sayers. But then, with a smile that went straight from her heart to her entire face, she'd softly say  "Georgette Heyer."

I was working at a summer camp, up in the hills of West Virginia in 1974, when I received a distressed call from my mother.
"Mamele*, I've got some terrible news. Brace yourself."
I immediately sat down, simultaneously clutching the phone and taking inventory of our mutual loved ones. No one was ill, unless you counted my Nana Nadel, who was tucked up in a nursing home, happy in her memories, which was all her Alzheimer's, then called senile dementia left her. That must be it.
"Oh Mama, I'm sorry. She lived a full and rich life though. How's Daddy?"
"Your father's fine. Why do you ask? Yes, her life was full-- 71 years. She would have been 72 next month"

I was confused. My grandmother was in her upper 90's. Something was definitely wrong her.

"Um, Mama? Wasn't she older?"
"No, Mamele, she just wrote about Regency England. She didn't live it!"

I was even more confused. It took a little while, but finally I realized my mother's urgent call was to relay the death of Georgette Heyer.

A well-worn set of Heyer's Regency novels occupied a place of honor on the bookshelves of our home as far back as I can remember. When I first tumbled onto Jane Austen's work, my mother quietly handed me one of Heyer's novels, and, almost reverently, whispered that I might enjoy this author. I tried reading the book (I forget which one) but it just didn't grab me. Over the years, I'd take various titles off the shelf, but none won my heart the way my mother's was captured. She even used to say that at the end of her days, when she'd lost her marbles, to set her in front of a window with a couple of Georgette Heyer books to read. When she finished one she could start the other. When that was done, she, she could start the first again, because she wouldn't remember the story and would enjoy it all over again. Indeed, in the end of her days, one of the last novels she read was a favorite Heyer.

What made me recall all this was that a Georgette Heyer mystery** fell into my hands via one of the local Little Free Libraries here in Charleston. I've been a bit nostalgic, and decided to give it a whirl. Know what? I liked it. It reminded me of some of my favorite 1950's era black and white mystery films, with enough wit to overcome the camp. Maybe it's time to pull Arabella off the shelf and give it another go. It would make my mother smile.

*little girl (affectionate) in Yiddish. A pet name of my mother's for me
** Footsteps in the Dark

A daughter's thoughts: Stage set July 1987, my kitchen

Stage set July 1987, my kitchen in downtown Charleston, SC. Cue phone ringing. It's my mother, in St Louis.

Her: "Mamele!* I'm coming to Charleston!"
Me: "Great, Mama! We'd love to have you come back! I miss you."
Her: "Since I have to fly to Atlanta, I called Evelyn (old family friend), and she and Will asked me to go to the Outer Banks with them, and then they'll drive me to Charleston!"
Me: "Wow! That's terrific. The only thing is, can you time it so that you don't come on August 7th or 8th? Those two days are really slammed-- we have to move the kids from the 9th floor of the old hospital into the new Children's Hospital, and will be working all night and most of the day to keep things smooth in the transition.
Her: Got it. No 7th or  8th.

I'd gotten my first job as a Clinical Nurse Specialist the year before. It had been a wonderful time, applying into practice all the information crammed into my head during post-graduate studies. On top of it, was the planning for how to move into a brand spanking new, state of the art, Children's Hospital. Logistics, decisions, working out potential kinks before they occured-- we even had to fight for that apostrophe in "Children's".

As the day of the move approached, the anticipations and anxieties grew, especially among the management team. My boss wished there were some way, after the move, that the whole management team could debrief, relax, and unwind, but as we didn't know exactly when we'd be finished, we couldn't make reservations anywhere. We knew we wanted it to be away from the hospital, but not too far, so people would be able to swing by after the move, dropping in when they were finally able to break away. The czuk home, at the time, was a beautiful Queen Anne Victorian, which we were renovating, and it was within walking distance to the hospital. Husband and I offered our home for the recovery gathering. It was perfect.

My mother kept me up to date on her plans to fly into Atlanta on the 6th, drive to the Outer Banks, where she had never been, and come down to Charleston August 10 or 11. Perfect. You see where this is going don't you?

Fast forward to the 8th-- tired, grubby, and giddy with relief, my colleagues and I tumbled up the stairs to my home. My husband met me with a warning greeting of "Surprise". There, sitting in the living room, was my mother. Apparently, Evelyn and Will, who hadn't seen her since the 60's but kept in touch by phone and mail, were frightened by her frailty, and by her need to use a cane and wheel chair with her MS. They panicked when she didn't respond to them as they drove, but kept staring out the window. It never dawned on them that she had simply turned off her hearing aid, and was just drinking in the pleasures of new sights on a road trip. The couple, quite simply, was afraid she would die on them, and decided to amend their trip, and take her immediately to Charleston. They dumped her on our doorstep, and into the loving hands of her son-in-law, while her daughter was busy moving babies into new beds.

My mother was not dying. She was actually quite robust; quite spunky, and quite humiliated at the behavior of her old friends.  She also knew that she had been delivered at an inopportune time, but there was nothing she could do about it. In the midst of the weary crowd of nurses  who were flopped around the living room, eating pizza and drinking beer at 9am (since we'd been up all night, that was what we wanted. We'd had coffee to the gills to get us past that 3am slump), my mother moved into social mode. She wanted to make people comfortable with her unexpected presence. Or so she claimed later. What, in fact, she did was perch her tiny body in a chair (resembling Lily Tomlin's Edith Ann), and as someone passed her, would announce, "I'm Ruthe Nadel. Who are you?" Shocked and stuttering, people gave their name, rank, and serial number. If someone missed passing in front of her, she would point at them, and beckon them to her, then introduce herself, and wait for their reply. For days after, people asked me, "Who the hell was that lady?", since most of them only knew my married name, and were too brain fogged at the time to try and figure it out.

(Side note: Not too long ago, I was reading an article about the planned MUSC Children's Hospital and Women's Pavillion scheduled to start construction soon. It referred to the need for a new state of the art facility, as the old one was outdated. I was stunned. Outdated? I remembered opening it. How could it be outdated? It was state of the art -- back in 1987.  Suddenly, it became clear to me why my mother used to get such a look of bemusement on her face when confronted with new and improved technologies.)

While still in recovery mode from illness, I overextended myself at a party given by friends. To gather strength before going to find Javaczuk and head home, I curled up in one of the comfy chairs of the home. Not too long after, I saw someone I'd been wanting to congratulate on the birth of a grandchild and called them over, then I waved to a child of a friend who was home visiting her parents, and then another alto from choir stopped by my chair to chat. It wasn't until I actually found myself pointing at another guest, who I'd never met in person, but knew we had mutual acquaintances, to call them over, that it hit me. I was a little lady, sitting in an oversized chair, summoning strangers.

My mother lived another 19 years. She never got to the Outer Banks, despite a life-time wish of seeing Nag's Head. I've never been either, but maybe someday, I'll go. When I do, she'll be with me, because clearly, I am channelling my mother.

August 2008 Mama and Mamele

*little girl (affectionate) in Yiddish. A pet name of my mother's for me. She would also say "mamele, tatele, bubbeleh" as a little love phrase when talking to babies or children.

RuthEli

Ah those crazy, impetuous kids, and entirely sensible kids. The wedding invitations said June 13. The dress was finished, tuxedo fitted, seating charts finalized, chuppa at the ready. A crystal glass waited to be broken. The marriage license obtained in advance, to make the religious ceremony legal, was tucked away with the groom's gear. The Rabbi had the date in his book. Even Zaydeh was remembering his youth, dreaming of dancing with a beautiful bride.

But it was June 3, 1943, and here they stood, in giddy anticipation. He'd gone to enlist in the army, and when the sergeant heard that a wedding in 10 days would change the check in that little box from single to married, he shook his head and said (paraphrased here, of course), "Look kid. Take my advice and go take your girl to city hall and get married now. Trust me. It's easier to do that than to get your marriage status changed in the army. Then come back and join up."

So, he called his girl, and explained the situation. She took an early lunch break from her job in a lab at Brooklyn College, and grabbed her younger sister Shayndyl. He grabbed the rings and his best buddy Harold. Off to City Hall they went, license in hand, rings in pocket, witnesses at their side. 

Before a New York City administrator, they promised to love and cherish each other. He pronounced them husband and wife. They kissed to seal the deal, hugged their witnesses, and thanked the official. Then he went back to join the army. She went back to work. I imagine each had a secret smile on their face.

Ten days later, they wed. I don't know if her grandfather or brother walked her down the aisle, as her papa had passed 6 years before. (She was always happy that Papa had met her Eli one day, as they walked the boardwalk at Brighton Beach, where she grew up.) But I've seen the film of the wedding reception, and know that that Zaydeh (my great grandfather) danced with his granddaughter, the first of his grandchildren to wed. It brings tears to my eyes every time.

Not so long ago, the shade of my heart (Wheel of Time reference there, for those who didn't get it) gave me a ring to replace my engagement ring, which has become perilously frail, having been worn first by my mother who gifted it to my beloved to give to me when we pledged our troth and became engaged. The new ring, a blue topaz, is slightly too big, and I've not yet resized it. I pulled two plain bands from my jewelry box to use as ring guards for my lovely ring, and alternate which I wear. The rings have been mine for only 6 years, but in my life always. They are my parent's wedding bands, which I visualize as holding the joy of their long marriage, releasing the rest.

Today, I smiled, and slipped both rings on my finger, with my own wedding band and the topaz. Reunited. Happy anniversary Mama and Daddy. Ikh hob ir lib. 

Lei-ing memories

Today, I had a flashback to my childhood. As I walked into the dance studio, I saw a friend was wearing a beautiful lei, which her husband had given her for her birthday.

I remember my parents dancing in our living room, in the days before Multiple Sclerosis messed with my mother's balance and strength.  At one point, my mother took up hula dancing. (I've written about that before, and am now republishing the post, and another one, on dancing with my mom at Spirit Moves, from an old blog to this one, should anyone care to read them.) The summer before I started kindergarten, my parents went to Hawaii, which I think sealed the deal for my mom and hula.

I looked at those purple blossoms gathered together, sitting lightly around my friend's neck, and suddenly, I was seeing my mother at my wedding. Months before Javaczuk and I wed, when I'd asked my mother what type of flowers she wanted to have as mother of the bride, she didn't even consider the traditional corsages.  "Can I have a lei?," she'd asked. "It will be like having your father's arms around me," How could I say no?

Heather and I adjust Ruthe's lei before the wedding ceremony; March 11, 1984

Today, as our group gathered in the wonderful Spirit Moves studio, I felt the soft petals of an invisible lei settle on my shoulders, and danced, once again*, with my mother.

Aloha Oe (Originally posted July 04, 2005)

I am the youngest of three.  There was  a two year gap between the birth of child number 1 and child number two in our house, but at the ripe age of 34, six years later, Bumma found herself expecting for a third time.  Bumma, for 84, is still a lovely looking woman, but in earlier days, she was absolutely stunning.  She had a healthy, earthy glow about her, totally natural and fresh (especially given the fashions of the 50's...)  My elder brother recalls how kids in the neighborhood would come to our house just to look at her and bask in her warmth.

I wasn't a terribly big baby, but as the days moved into summer, Bumma recalls how graceless and cumbersome she felt.  Her body was not the slim shape she was so accustomed to.  Summers in the Washington DC area are sticky and hot.  She lumbered through her days, feeling slightly elephantine and clumsy, and even recalls that she couldn't fit through some doorways if she was sideways.  She's a little slip of a thing--5'2' at her peak, maybe 100 pounds soaking wet.

One evening, she and my father were out with friends, when they saw a Hawaiian dancer.  Bumma was captivated by the flowing motions of the dance, the gentle sway of the woman's hips and enchanting movements of the hands and arms as the dancer danced her story.  The hula clearly called to my mother, a daughter of Jewish immigrants, who was born and raised in Brooklyn and Brighton Beach.  The soft music of another beach and the islands ensnared her heart. 

And thus, after I was born, my mother learned to hula dance.  She and her friends met to take lessons.  Mildred Kushner became so entranced that she formally changed her name to Milanii Lee.  Bumma didn't go to such measures, but loved the dance.  She was never brave enough to dance in public, but would dance at home, for my father.  Each day, she'd practice in front of the mirror.  I still remember sitting on the floor watching her...the long mirror in her bedroom, the rays of sunlight streaming through the window, dust motes dancing in the beams--and my beautiful mother swaying in the rhythm of the music.  On rare occasions, she'd take out a grass skirt she had acquired somewhere and dance in that.  The fronds had a swish and whisper that added to the cadence of the dance.  It was magical.

Bumma recalls how she'd look down at her youngest child, a golden headed girl, sitting on the floor next to her.  And as Bumma moved her arms and hands to tell a story, the little girl at her feet also waved her little arms in time to the music. 

It was one such day that the phone rang while Bumma danced.  The call came from her elder brother.  Her beloved mother, Ida, was ill--comatose.  Years later, when Bumma was telling the story of her mother's death, I asked her if that was the time she stopped dancing and cried on the phone.  I was two.  I still remember.  Bumma left that day to be at her mother's side. 

Ida died that weekend.  Bumma never danced the hula again.

ALOHA OE

© 1878
Lyrics & Music: Queen Liliuokalani; English lyrics © 1923 arr. By Chas. E. King

Despite the common story that the Queen composed "Aloha Oe" while imprisoned in the Palace during the overthrow of the monarchy, George Kanahele in Hawaiian Music and Musicians states it was common knowledge at the time that she wrote the song during a horseback ride to the ranch of Edwin Boyd in Maunawili, inspired by the giving of a lei to one of her party by a Hawaiian girl at the gate of the ranch.

ALOHA OE
Queen Liliuokalani


English

Proudly swept the rain cloud by the cliffs,
As on it glided through the trees
Still following ever the "liko"
The "Ahihi lehua" of the vale...

Farewell to thee,
Farewell to thee,
Thou charming one who dwellst among the bow'rs.
One fond embrace,
Before I now depart,
Until we meet again.

Thus sweet memories come back to me,
Bringing fresh remembrance of the past
Dearest one, yes, thou art mine own,
From thee, true love shall ne'er depart.

(Chorus)

I have seen and watched thy loveliness,
Thous sweet Rose of Maunawili,
And 'tis there the birds oft love to dwell
And sip the honey from thy lips.

Proudly swept the rain cloud by the cliffs,
As on it glided through the trees
Still following ever the "liko"
The "Ahihi lehua" of the vale...

Farewell to thee,
Farewell to thee,
Thou charming one who dwellst among the bow'rs.
One fond embrace,
Before I now depart,
Until we meet again.

Thus sweet memories come back to me,
Bringing fresh remembrance of the past
Dearest one, yes, thou art mine own,
From thee, true love shall ne'er depart.

(Chorus)

I have seen and watched thy loveliness,
Thous sweet Rose of Maunawili,
And 'tis there the birds oft love to dwell
And sip the honey from thy lips.

I can haz sex (subtitle: bumma votes) [Originally published October 22, 2008]

With the election tomorrow, I keep remembering the 2008 campaign, and inevitably, my darling mother. She's never far from me in heart and thought, but sometimes, a little extra beam of Bumma comes through.  On election eve, I thought I'd re-share this one from the last presidential election with you.

-------------------------------

As election day approaches, I get a little twitchy, Not just because the fate of the country seems to be a crap-shot, but because I think I am reliving Bumma's spectacular performance on Election Day 2006, when she gave a good imitation of standing in the check-out line of life. So, this year, to avoid the strain on my heart, I again offered to get her an absentee ballot. Again, she declined.

A few days ago, after checking in on her and seeing that she was watching a story on CNN about how crowded the polls are expected to be on November 4, and how record numbers of people were voting early, I offered to take her to the South Carolina State Election Commission's local office, where she could vote early. We planned to go early this morning, to beat any possible crowd that might accumulate.

This morning, I made her oatmeal and checked what time she would be ready. "As soon as I get dressed," she replied. I trotted off to brush my teeth, grab a book (don't feign surprise-- Insincerity isn't flattering) and help her down to the car.

But bumma was in her fluffly pink robe, curled up in her chair watching TV.

"Ummm...bumma? You still wanna go vote today?"

"Yes, my dear. We can go as soon as I'm dressed."

"Okay, " I say, highly confused.

I sit down in the living room and wait. And wait. And wait. 20 minutes later, I peek into bumma's room. She's still in her fluffy pink robe, only now she's curled up like a little shrimp in her bed. Clearly, I have misunderstood something.

So, I go upstairs and pay a few bills, write a book review or two, and wander downstairs. There is bumma, fully dressed, waiting in the living room.

"It's about time you're ready," she says when she sees me.

"Sorry. I got confused when I looked in your room and saw you curled under the covers."

"I love my bed," she tells me, and grins.

Down to the car and off we go. The place, when we get there, is pretty mobbed. But I secure a seat for bumma and I stand in first one line to register, then one to check in at the polling place, and then a third to actually get to vote. She sits patiently while I do the lines. The wait was made better by the group of folks around me -- we all had that sinking ship camaraderie, and had a great time discussing the whole election season. At one point, a poll worker handed us a sheet which had the various amendments on it. It became clear that at least 4 of the 7 of us misread the first amendment. It reads as follows:

Must Section 33, Article III of the Constitution of this state be amended so as to delete the provision that no unmarried woman shall legally consent to sexual intercourse who shall not have attained the age of fourteen years

There was a explanation which only confused some. It pointed out the state legislature currently has the age of consent set at sixteen for most cases. The problem, it seemed, was that some folks weren't understanding that the legislature and the constitution were not one in the same. They were thinking that the amendment was to drop the age of consent from 16 (horrors enough) to (shudder, gasp) 14. Not so. The amendment is to take the age of consent out of the constitution and let the state legislature set the age of consent, hopefully higher, not lower. (After all, many of them are Daddys with shot-guns.)

When I realized that lots of people were misreading this, I thought it best to let bumma take a look at the sheet ahead of time. She didn't have her reading glasses with her and asked me to read it to her. So, in a very crowded, very noisy room, I begin to read to my deaf mother.

Me (as quietly as possible, but still loud enough that she hopefully hears me): Must Section 33, Article III of the Constitution of this state be amended so as to delete the provision that no unmarried woman shall legally consent to sexual intercourse

Bumma: Did you say sexual intercourse?

Me (did I mention the room was crowded?): Yes

Bumma: Intercourse? Sexual? They're voting on it?

Me (crowded as in lots of people?): Let me finish the statement

Bumma: There's more to sexual intercourse that I don't know?

Me (ignoring that one totally. I don't want to go there.): Must Section 33, Article III of the Constitution of this state be amended so as to delete the provision that no unmarried woman shall legally consent to sexual intercourse who shall not have attained the age of fourteen years

Bumma: Did you say 14 years old? They're babies? What do they know from sex? They want 14 year olds to have sexual intercourse?

Me: No bumma, the amendment is to change the age of consent to something else, something higher.

Bumma: Oh, good. What?

Me: Probably 16.

Bumma: 16??? I was 16 when I met your father and we didn't have sexual intercourse.

Me (really not wanting to go there, either.) That's the amendment bumma. Vote yes if you want to let the legislature change it, or no if you want to leave the section of the Constitution in place.

Bumma: Though he did have a lovely hairy chest. Did I ever tell you--

Me (interrupting because I REALLY don't want to go there): There are two other amendments bumma. do you want to hear them?

Bumma: Is there sexual intercourse involved in them, too?

Anyhow, we made it through. Bumma voted. As we walked out to the car, she turned to me and said, "I hope Obama wins." She walked a few steps and turned back to me again. "And next year," she said, "I think I'll apply for an absentee ballot."

Obumma. You are something else.

Bumma does her civic duty (Reprinted from November 12, 2006)

I mentioned last week that bumma wasn't feeling well. She's her usual self now, sometimes incredibly pert, sometimes lost in memories, but up and about, and interacting with the world. When I wrote last week that she wasn't well, I was afraid that by the end of the day I'd have to come back and tell the bumma fans around the world that our bumma had left the building. But-- she pulled through and seems fine now. I've talked with my brothers and with her doctor and with her, and we all know that she could have moments left or years. There is no telling. But considering her ability to confound, I expect that it may be on the years end of things. Last week, however, I honestly didn't know.Monday evening, we'd had an interesting supper table discussion about the elections the next day. All three voting adults and the nearly voting age boyczuk are thoroughly disgusted with the leadership in our country. Not that the Democrats offer a much better solution, but at this point, you grasp at anything. We all had the same strategy-- throw the bums out. And if the two candidates for an office were equally scummy, vote for the one that wasn't an incumbent, or who wasn't supported by the incumbent. A few weeks back, a neighbor has offered to help bumma get an absentee ballot so that she didn't have to go to the polls-- but she declined the offer, saying she wanted to go and pull the lever on the voting machine to see her vote count. She was afraid that an absentee ballot wouldn't make a difference. About 8 o'clock, she trotted off to her room and soon after her light went out.Apparently, though, more than her reading light went out. At 8 am when she still hadn't emerged from her room, I went in to check on her. (We call these checks "Bumma breathing checks", in a tongue in cheek way, but seriously, sometimes I wonder if that's how I'm going to find out she's passed on-- when the little lump under the covers doesn't rise and fall with her breathing. She sleeps curled up in an impossible position, beyond fetal-- more like a breech birth and Gumby rolled together. It's hard to sort out where her head is let alone other parts. Plus she usually throws the pillow over her head, so I always worry that she'll smother herself. 8:30, 9, 9:30. 10. No bumma. At 10:30 I could detect that she had shifted positions though-- her foot was hanging off the bed, roughly parallel to her head. (Figure that one out if you dare.) She didn't actually wake up until 12:30. The way I found out she was awake, was I heard a crash, and found her on the floor. She said she was just standing there, not trying to walk or move, and that she had her walker right there. She hadn't hit her head, didn't black out, was just terribly shaken. (She falls a lot. It's a constant battle with her to have her use her walker. More often than not, she just kind of waves in the breeze, unsteady, with her walker a good 6 or 8 feet away. I tell her all the time that I'll take care of her if she breaks something, but that I'd rather not have to.) Her speech was slurry, her eyes dull, the left side of her face looked loose and funny to me. I went to call 911 and she stopped me.

"My dear, don't look so distressed. I have to die sometime."

Yeah? Well, not on my watch, toots!

Anyhow, long story short, she refused medical care. Flat out, point blank. Reminded me that I had health care power of attorney only if she was unable to make decisions, and she still could make decisions. She just wanted to be home. I helped her back to bed and then sat with her, keeping a close eye on her vitals and her cognitive function, and applying ice to the various tender spots she'd banged when she fell this time. She drifted off to sleep, and I called my husband, her doctor again and wrote my brothers. I figured she'd had a stroke. I honestly didn't know where this was going, and thought that she very well could check out. (Please, I was distressed enough at her refusal of care. It goes against everything I was taught. But I was in touch with her physician throughout this, and did the best I could, and still honor my mother's wishes. She even reminded me of the living will she has on file and what her wishes are regarding end of life care.)

But then about 3:30 she woke up. Her eyes were clearer and her speech normal.

"Am I too late?"

"Too late for what, bumma?"

"Too late to vote. To do my civic duty."

We got her dressed and into the car. I drove to the polls, and then took her voter registration card inside, past the huge lines of people who had turned out, in the rain, to vote. We found out last year that something called "curbside voting" exists, where the ballot is brought out to a disabled person so that they can vote. And that's what they did. They brought the computer voting machine out to bumma, and she voted from the car. It had been raining all day, but in the time that it took for the poll workers to come out to bumma, the skies cleared. The poll workers thanked her for coming out (by law, two have to go out to the car for curbside voting) and she thanked them for their work and for helping her to cast her vote by bringing the ballot to the car. It was really very sweet.

As I got in the car she turned to me and said, "It's too important a thing to skip. I believe my one vote makes a difference. Let's go home."

In follow-up, I got her to her doctor on the pretext of getting a flu shot, which she hadn't yet gotten. She told me that getting the flu shot was the "height of optimism" that she'd live long enough to get the flu. Hmph. Her doctor knew she'd refused care and only had my descriptions to go on, but he knows me and knows my nursing background. We figured that it had been a TIA (transient ischemic attack or "mini stroke") that had cleared, and when she came for her flu shot, he did a quick head to toe check without her really being aware he was assessing her. I watched as he greeted her by taking both her hands and squeezing them gently as he said hello-- she squeezed back and that day, unlike Tuesday, her grip was equal. He put her through the paces without her ever realizing she was being checked out. It was masterful.

So...that's the quick version of it all. Our bumma pulled a new trick out of her bag and scared the bejesus out of me. But she seems to be okay now, just a little tired. I truly believe that voting saved her life. Now I can only hope that it saves the country as well.