Thursday, the day before Halloween
I know it’s not Tuesday, but I’m sitting with Granny anyway. Aunt Birdie and Miller have gone on a long-needed vacation to the Smokies; they should be back on Sunday. I volunteered Eddie and me to take over total care of Granny for the extended weekend. Three of those days were good days; one was not—Halloween night. I should have known that the dark costumes associated with Halloween, are the worst shade of color for an Alzheimer’s patient.
Most Alzheimer’s patients have difficulty when it comes to large expansives of dark space—black and white checkered floors, dark brown doors or walls—they perceive these spaces as holes in their environment and they try to figure out how to get around or avoid the big holes. So, when trick-or-treaters started to arrive at the farm, Granny began to get more and more disoriented.
Nicole was having a Halloween party and had invited her entire 6th grade class. Of course, the most logical place to gather this large number of kids was the farm. Every day for the past two weeks, Nicole and I have headed to the farm to work on the haunted house, the flying brooms, and the mad scientist’s laboratory, not to mention other creepy, spooky surprises. Nicole was so excited; she had been wanting to have a party for several years and I kept putting her off, because I didn’t think our place was big enough. If it turned off cold the night of the party, then we could move all the kids into the barn to stay warm. Our house is just big enough for the three of us; there is no room for more people. Down on the farm, we had room for more people.
Miller had donated lots of muscle and hard work, not to mention letting us set up a mad scientist’s laboratory in his beloved garage. We had managed to move all of Miller’s tools and accessories to one wall of the garage and we hung a dark curtain to hide the items. We were left with a large enough area to set-up three folding table end to end with plenty of room for children to walk around the table in a single file. We were setting up different areas for the children to use their hands and touch slimy things—large Concord grapes, skinned, make great eyeballs; cooked macaroni turns into brains; raw hamburger makes wonderful intestines. There are all types of everyday items that take on a scary texture, especially if the room is only lit with candles. Aunt Birdie loaned us a large black cauldron, that was actually a cast iron soup pot; but it made a wonderful cauldron when we used dried ice to make steam come out of it.
Eddie helped us get the haunted barn together over the weekend. Originally, we were going to use the garage as the haunted house, but, when Miller offered us the barn, we thought a haunted barn sounded better; vast areas to haunt. We hung ghosts from the rafters and nailed skeletons to the walls. In one of the horse stall, we hung a straw stuffed scarecrow—literally—hung him with a noose around his neck. Pumpkins, gourds, corn shocks and miniature orange lights set the mood for a spooky party.
We spent one afternoon stacking hay bales onto the large tobacco wagon. We turned the wagon into a coach for hayrides we were planning. Jake and Sally—Miller’s two favorite horses—were the animals you wanted when you needed to move a heavy load.
Miller bush hogged a trail that looped around by the old tobacco bed and turned around by the big catfish pond. From there it made its’ windy way thorough the woods behind the barn and on down into the creek before heading back to the house by way of the orchard. Because Miller wasn’t going to be home for the actual Halloween party, the Tuesday night before, he decided to show Eddie all his hard work, by taking him on a trial run of the hayride.
Since it was several hours until the sun was totally gone, Nicole and I decided to take Granny with us on the test run. Of course, she made a fuss that she was too tired, but we managed to convince her it was going to be fun. Once we got her on the wagon and settled onto a blanket-covered bale of hay, I think she finally relaxed.
“I remember my daddy hooking up our old mules on Sunday morning to take us to church. We were so proud to show up at church wearing our Sunday best.” Granny had that far away look in her eyes—thinking about the past that was her answer whenever you asked her where she went during those wistful times.
“What kind of clothes did you wear to church, Granny?” Nicole asked. Even though Nicole was only eleven, she was sensitive to everyone’s needs and she had honed in on the fact that we needed to keep Granny remembering her past. Nicole is keeping a notebook with all the stories that Granny tells. Whenever she learns something new about Granny, she writes it in her little red notebook, along with the date and the situation for the entry. Maybe she will publish a book one day on Granny’s life—those would be lovely memories to read about when I get older.
“Well, I only had one Sunday go-to-meetin’ outfit, so I wore the same dress every week. It was my accessories that I had to keep changing.” Granny turned and smiled at Nicole. “You had better believe that I would never have been allowed to wear pants to church like you kids now a days.”
“I just don’t like dresses, Granny. They are so uncomfortable. . .tell me about your ‘Sunday go-to-meeting’ clothes.” I could see the tape recorder turning on in Nicole’s brain; she can remember details better than anyone.
“Well, it was the color of cream that forms on top of butter—my mother had saved flour sacks all winter in order to have enough material to make me a dress. She worked on it. . .”
“Flour sacks. . .you mean flour like what you cook with, or flowers like mom has in her garden?” Nicole was a child of the twenty first century so she had only seen flour come in throw away paper bags.
“Lordy, child—flour, like the flour I make your biscuits out of. Only back when I was a child, flour was a staple for all country homes. Everything was homemade, cooking was woman’s work.”
Granny yammered on as we bumped along the curvy path that Miller made with the tractor and bush hog. Occasionally she would point out a shrub or tree or some other type of vegetation. I was amazed at the intensity that Nicole studied her grandmother. I could almost see her memorizing every line and crease of Granny’s leathery face. Special times-these are special times when memories are being made. The more often you revisit a memory, the more vivid it becomes etched in your brain. The brain is a powerful thing.
It is during special times like this that I miss my Granny the most. Simple memories of being on the farm with family and friends—these are the types of memories I cherish. I may never get to see Granny’s face light up again whenever she would see bittersweet growing up an old fencerow, but I had that memory etched in my mind, just waiting to be recalled. These stories have been passed on to my children, and I’m ready to start handing down more through grandchildren—not that I’m trying to hurry anyone along.
To be continued ...
© Bobbi Rightmyer
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