Deep Creek - Chapter Two

Tuesday, July 4

The whole family is getting together tonight—holiday celebration, the 4th of July. This is always my husband’s time to shine. Since before we were married, Eddie has been in charge of the family’s fireworks display. He started 20 years ago with a few Roman candles, but soon his show grew to be a spectacular display of flying, popping, sparking array of colored lights and sounds that could almost compete with the nightly fireworks display at the Kings Island amusement park in Cincinnati, Ohio.

Granny loved the 4th of July. She grew up during the depression and could appreciate the significance of 1776. My kids have only known the 4th of July as a time of fireworks, hamburgers and homemade ice cream. I’m sure they were educated on the history of July 4th while in elementary school, but learning about people who died over 225 years ago is just not as fun as running through the yard with a sparkler in each hand.

Granny like the arena size fireworks—the one’s that look like a diamond exploding into a gazillion pieces—the one’s that used to be seen during the opening of Sunday nights Walt Disney. There was just something about Tinkerbell exploding through a wall of sparkles—tiny gold wand in her hand—that takes you back to a calmer, quieter time. Granny was partial to the explosions of sparks that started out one color, but changed two or three times before finally disappearing in a spray of gold dust. Granny didn’t like the duds or the loud retorts—the loud boom resonated through her head and left the sound of “an angry hornet nest” buzzing to the core of her spine.

But the thing I think Granny enjoyed most about the 4th of July was the homemade ice cream—in particular, peppermint ice cream. If peppermint wasn’t available, then strawberries, peaches, or blackberries were a welcoming substitute—however, Granny always saved those large candy canes from Christmas. You know the ones I mean, they are about a foot long and as big around as a turnip—and everyone buys them to fill Christmas stockings, but nobody ever eats them. Granny managed to accumulate back all the candy cane logs she gave away as unique wrapping from gifts of Christmases past.

Granny would drop these sticks on the ground and then place the large chunks into a gallon size Ziploc baggie. Granny would then wrap the baggie into her sunbonnet and bang it against the house until the pulverized pieces resembled course crumbles. These sticky particles made the best peppermint ice cream in the world, better even than the bus station—which was the first place I ever tasted, or even heard of, peppermint ice cream.

Before Granny started making peppermint ice cream, the only other place you could get this flavor of ice cream was at the Greyhound Bus Stop in Harrodsburg. In the 1970’s, this was not only the place to get the best homemade ice cream; it was the only place to get homemade ice cream. Shortie—Eileen Lester; owner, cook and chief bottle washer—worked the counter, cleaned the grill and was in charge of making the famous frozen dessert. Shortie was a short woman, two inches under five foot, but she was feisty and could always make a person laugh. In fact, it was a rule—you couldn’t leave the Bus Stop unless you had a smile on your face.

I have snapshots in my head of me as a little girl sitting on a leather-capped chrome barstool at a worn wood counter—black patent leathers and lace trimmed socks dangles from my long skinny legs. Hard to imagine any part of me ever being skinny—under a summer dress of blue gingham, that I’m sure Granny had made for me. Beside me, Granny managed to remain propped on her bar stool, even with her silk stocking legs cross at the knees.

Peppermint was not even a regular item on the menu at Shortie’s, so I was always happy when my, once-a-month trips to the Bus Station fell on “Peppermint Patty” day. Shortie started calling me Peppermint Patty from the first time I ate the creamy concoction. I was 10 before I realized Peppermint Patty was a friend of Charlie Brown and Snoopy, the famous Peanuts’ characters. Just a few months ago, I learned that Granny called Shortie at the beginning of every month to find out when she would be freezing peppermint ice cream. Here, I always thought I was so lucky that every month was Peppermint Patty day—when in actuality Granny had arranged these monthly visits just to see my gleeful happy face every time I got to eat tasty cream.

“No, no—don’t use table sugar in that bar-b-que sauce! Use brown sugar—how many times do I have to tell you?”

Granny was sitting on a stool at the kitchen table scolding my mother when I arrived at Aunt Birdie’s. Mom was in charge of making the barbeque sauce this year. This was always Granny’s job, but Aunt Birdie had called this morning and announced that today was not going to be a good day.

Typically when Granny had a bad day, there were signs early in the morning—a gradual increase in confusion that hit a crescendo by three in the afternoon. Sundowners. As a nurse I realize that some elderly people with dementia usually get worse in the late afternoons, as the sun is getting ready to go down. It was my night to sit with Granny, which meant I wouldn’t be getting much sleep tonight.

“Ok, mother—I’m putting in the brown sugar. What’s next?”

Mom had the recipe right in front of her, but she continued to elicit Granny’s help. We have been trying to this because I feel that if we can keep Granny’s mind active—even on bad days—then we can slow the progression of her disease. I’m mot sure it is helping, but I know one thing—it is not hurting. So we try to keep hope alive and Granny’s mind active. Granny is also on a medication called Aricept, which is supposed to help with the earlier stages of Alzheimer’s, but I feel that Granny is already easing into the secondary stages of her disease. Soon, this medication won’t work and we will be forced to try something new.

“Well . . .now you need to add…” The words came hastily out of my grandmother’s mouth. In that moment you could almost see the healthy part of her brain wrestling with the approaching dementia—each trying to gain control of her frail body.
“Peanuts. Add a half-cup . . .Birdie? Birdie—where are you, Birdie?” Granny began to look frantically around the kitchen.

“I’m right here, Mama—right here.” Birdie was walking into the kitchen from the backyard, her Thanksgiving turkey platter in her hands. She felt all our get togethers were a time of thanksgiving, so she used the platter on a regular bases—carrying raw meat to the grill, washing the it and then returning the finished meal to the table.

“Damnit, Birdie—don’t back talk me!” Granny slammed her fist on the table. It never gets any easier hearing foul words explode from my grandmother’s mouth—it was even harder to accept the fact that she would lose her temper. Granny was always a patient woman and rarely would her ever hear her raise her voice.

“Now, Granny—don’t say such words around the kids.” I scooted my chair closer to her and reached out to touch her small hand.

“Don’t—touch—me.” She jerked her hand away. “When is someone going to take me to Deep Creek? I’ve got to slop them hogs.” Granny began to get up from her stool, holding on to the table as she stood. “I’ve got to go—got to feed them kids—got to . . .Cecil? Cecil, where are you?” Granny’s husband—my grandfather—was named Cecil. My brother was named after him, Cecil Camden—Papa died when I was eighteen months old. As Granny’s dementia has progressed, she had begun to ask for Cecil on a daily bases.

“Now, mother, you know you can’t get up by yourself.” Birdie tried to distract Granny by getting her banged up wheelchair from the pantry. “Here, sit in your chair and Dawn will take you for a ride.” I helped my aunt get Granny settled into the chair.

“You’ll take me to Deep Creek?” Click; another subtle little change in Granny’s mind. “Yes, Granny—we’ll go to Deep Creek.” I released the brake on the wheels and started to push her toward the door. Granny turned and looked at me—tears glistening in her bright blue eyes. She reached up to touch my hand and as we headed into the backyard, she said, “Bless you dear—bless you. Cecil’s waiting for me in Deep Creek—he’s been so lonely without me.”

As I strolled with my fragile grandmother around the gardens that she had once loved so much, I was struck with the fact that life is a very frail thing. We should learn to take one day at a time—you never know when your life will be changed. Granny wasn’t going to be with us forever. The late stages of Alzheimer’s can last anywhere from two to five years—sometimes more, sometimes less. No one really knows the cause and reason behind this disease and there is no know cure, only medications to help slow done the progression. On Granny’s “good” days, she was a joy and a treasure to be with; on her “bad” days, she was still and joy and a treasure, but she was also very tiring and frustrating. Sometimes, nothing you did for Granny was right. Unfortunately, tonight would be one of those nights.

“This isn’t the way to Deep Creek.” Granny reached out to one of the nearest flowerpots. “Stop! Stop right now. Take me to Deep Creek—I’ve got to feed Cecil.” Granny was trying to stand up from her wheelchair.

“Now, Granny, sit back down. We’re going to have fireworks when it gets dark. Remember how you always love to watch the fireworks?” I reached out to take Granny’s left arm.

“No, No! Leave me alone. I’ve got to get to Deep Creek. Take me to Deep Creek!” She continued to smack at me with her hands. “Okay, Granny. Come on, sit down and we’ll go to Deep Creek. We’ve got to go eat supper first.”

“No, I’ve got to cook for Cecil. He’s going to be so hungry. He’s a good man, such a good man.” Granny’s eyes held that blank, lackluster look of someone dazed.

“Yes, Granny. Granddaddy was a good man. He was such a piggy back rider and he loved to pay hide and seek.” I continued to talk to Granny in a soothing tone and I urged her again to sit down in her chair. She slowly turned and with great effort and creaking of her knees, she finally sat down. She folded her hands in her lap, lifted her feet onto the foot pedals, and then quietly said, “Okay, take me on to Deep Creek.”

We finished our tour of the garden without another problem. When we got back to the house, Mom and Aunt Birdie were piling up food on the pick wooden picnic table under the large oak tree in Aunt Birdie’s back yard. The men were coming in from the pasture where they had been sitting up the launch pad for the fireworks; my brother, Cecil, and Miller looked like they were up to no good.

“What are you guys grinning like a fox for? You’re up to something, it’s written all over you.” Aunt Birdie had good reason to be suspicious because Miller was the family proclaimed “king” of practical jokes. If you haven’t been locked up in the outhouse at least once by the time you’re ten, then you don’t know Miller. If he thinks it will make someone laugh, he will do it.

“Oh, hush your mouth, woman! We’re getting ready for tonight. Let’s just say, ‘they sky will sing’.” Miller walked up to Aunt birdie and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “What smells so good? I’m hungry enough to eat a horse.”
“I just hope it’s not Jake or Sally,” said Nicole. “I’m planning on taking a ride before dark.”

Aunt Birdie had outdone herself again. The barbeque ribs were so yummy we were all licking our fingers and mouths like we had never seen food before. Fresh roasting ears of corn were dripping with butter and juicy slabs of heirloom tomato slices along with German potato salad—which, is what Granny called potato salad made with mustard—made with homegrown new potatoes; all filled the plates along side a platter that looked like it was holding a half a cow.

Granny was fairly calm during supper and even as we were clearing away the dirty dishes and wrapping up leftovers. Sometimes she would make an appropriate comment, but mostly she uttered fragments of sentences.

“That boy…get down here…all day long…they no good.” Occasionally she would answer yes or no if you asked a direct question, but then she would go on talking to no one in particular. “Now, get out of there…I’ve told’em…girls, my girls…get down here.”
When the first firework sounded, Granny jumped like she had been shot. I was sitting with Granny on Aunt Birdie’s glider, huddled under a blanket. Although it had reached a high of 84 today, once the sun went down there was a chill to the air that you only get when you’re down in a valley.

“Lordy, Cecil? Was that Cecil? Is he still hunting at this hour?” Granny’s eyes were sparkling with the burst of the next burst of fireworks.

“No, Granny. That’s Eddie and Miller. They’re shooting off the fireworks. Watch…see how pretty.” I scooted closer to Granny and wrapped her in the blanket with me. Whenever there would be a lull in the display, Granny would try to get up, but I kept bringing her attention back to the fireworks. It was going to be a long night.

Later, as I settled Granny in the bed, I kneeled on the floor beside her bed and we continued to talk about the fireworks and all the people who had been there. Granny’s eyes got heavy and slowly she drifted off to sleep, but—ah—I wasn’t going to be fooled. From experience I knew that Granny would not stay asleep. Ten, eleven, twelve…I lost count of the number of times that I patted Granny’s hand that night and said, ‘we’ll go to Deep Creek in the morning, Granny’.

“It’s dark outside, Granny. No, Cecil’s in the bed. Yes, Granny, I know—we’ll go to Deep Creek in the morning.” Over and over again, it was always the same. Whenever Granny had a bad day, the night would be the same. On those long lonely nights, all she can remember is Deep Creek. Her heart was in Deep Creek.

© Bobbi Rightmyer