Sarah Lynn's Nature's Splendor: Journal: This Church or That Church, That Is the Question

Once again, I spent every possible minute last week scanning old photos. These are all the photos taken before I got digital cameras, starting with the pictures I took with my very first camera – a cute little red 126 that Daddy and Mama gave me for Christmas when I was 8 years old. They gave me a 12-count roll of black and white film with it.

The next day, I trotted right over to the little house on the corner where Loren and Janice lived, found Loren skinning a rabbit (he’d been out hunting), and proceeded to use up all my film on Loren, the unfortunate rabbit, and Bullet I, their black German Shepherd, playing in the snow.

(They would eventually have Bullet II and Bullet III. Bullet III was the offspring of Aleutia, our Siberian husky, and a gigantic German Shepherd that sometimes roamed the neighborhood during the night hours.)

I’ll betcha Mama was really glad that film wasn’t in color, when she got the pictures back and saw what I’d shot with it!

I’ve been working on the albums steadily for about a year and a half now, with recent frequent interruptions to do customer quilting ----- and I now have 22,960 photos scanned. That’s 19.9 GB – not a whole lot of gigabytes in comparison to number of photos, as I’m scanning at only 300 dpi. The next option is 600 dpi, and that slows the scanner down considerably. Time is of value, too, and 300 dpi gives decent quality pictures. Now and then, when scanning a page of tiny school photos, I up it to 600 dpi, so that each little pic is higher in quality.

I’m almost done with all the totes full of albums upstairs in my office. The hope chest Larry made for me when we were 17 is full of albums; I’ll start on those next.

I have about 80 albums scanned. They’re not in order; they got mixed up when we moved, and I don’t have a big enough bookcase to keep them all in. At least they’re in order on my computer. I have all my data – almost two terabytes – backed up on two external hard drives. Sure wouldn’t want to lose all that!

After I sent last week’s letter, I reread the part about that odd kite, and suddenly remembered a time when I was wee little, and my parents and I were visiting some friends. Their teenage son and three of his friends were flying a kite.

It was homemade of paper with a wooden frame, a tail of fabric scraps, and the lines were plain old string. Lots of string. The kite got higher and higher, and the boys let me hold the ball of string for a little bit, but it was pulling me off my feet, and one of them quickly rescued me.

And then, when the kite was a mere speck in the sky, the string broke. The kite was free. The boys leaped over the fence and raced after it. There were nothing but cornfields north of their house. That area is now full of houses for a good two miles to the north, and at least twice that many miles from east to west. Back then (about 1967), the population was around 16,000, I think. It is now about 23,500. So there are many new housing developments on all sides of town. The cornfields started just one block west of our house (the parsonage), too. Now there are about six blocks of homes where the corn used to grow, there on the west side.

I scrambled through the fence and tried to keep up. Stephen, the youngest of the boys, waited for me. The others ran for all they were worth, trying to keep the kite in view, so they could recover it when it came down.

I don’t think they ever found that kite. Stephen and I turned back after a lengthy and hard run through the stubble and huge dirt clods in that cornfield. I was much too little to keep up with the big boys, and I was worried Mama and Daddy would soon be ready to go, and not know where I was.

But I still remember how amazed I was at the height that kite was flying. My kite-flying attempts, sometimes with Daddy’s help, were always a lot like Charlie Brown’s: the kite – usually a lightweight plastic thing that we got at the store for 25¢ – would bump along on the ground, or get up just high enough to then spin around, aim directly at the ground, and commit suicide in a quite spectacular fashion. We did once get one high enough to catch on the electrical lines behind our house. It waved around up there for days thereafter.

One of my blind friends, upon hearing this story, remarked, “I like the idea of kites, their lovely, delicate smell of glue and paper; their wonderful feel. I don’t suppose it will be an activity in glory, so I’ll just have to imagine the fun.”

“Now, there’s a thought!” I laughed. “I used to ask Daddy questions like that when I was little: ‘Will we fly kites in heaven?’ Daddy’s answers always satisfied me, because he almost invariably reached for his Bible and read me a verse or two to validate what he said.”

A cousin and I were recently discussing her father and my brother, both of whom acquired dementia as they aged. Her father had Alzheimer's; Loren has Lewy Body dementia.

Some of this I have mentioned before, but, in the hopes that it might help someone who is going through similar experiences with a loved one, I will repeat it.

I have researched the drugs commonly prescribed for Alzheimer’s. They would not help Loren, and would very likely make it impossible for him to continue living alone. A year and a half ago, when we took him to the doctor and had a number of tests done, including a CT scan of the brain, the doctor gave him a drug that would supposedly help memory skills. But it was for Alzheimer’s, not Lewy Body dementia, and I could see no difference whatsoever; in fact, it seemed to make his hallucinations worse, if it did anything at all. Furthermore, he was supposed to take it twice a day, morning and evening, with food – and I couldn’t regulate that. I worried that he’d forget and take too much. I got him a daily pill dispenser, but wondered what good that did, when he often forgot what day it was.

Then when I finally learned about Lewy Body dementia (I’d never heard of it, even though it’s the second most common type of dementia after Alzheimer’s), and knew that was exactly what Loren had, I saw that the medicine he’d been given truly would not help, and, just as I’d suspected, would very likely make matters worse.

I went on reading and researching... and I see that really, there is no drug that doctors can assure might help in any significant way. And of course there’s no ‘cure’; we all know that. Every drug I read about can cause sleepiness, lethargy, dizziness, disorientation – and when these drugs are prescribed, it is recommended that the patient does not drive. Furthermore, none of those drugs help with the hallucinations and forgetfulness, which are his main symptoms – unless you figure that while he’s drugged and out of it, he’s unable to hallucinate or forget anything.

That’s not a good way to live! I was thinking of that as I left his house last Tuesday after taking him a meal of Philly steak, mixed vegetables (peas, carrots, and green beans), applesauce, pineapple chunks, a blueberry streusel muffin still warm from the oven, cheese, and cran-raspberry juice. He was his ‘normal’ cheery self, and showed me the book he was reading, a documentary-style book on Laura Ingalls Wilder (not one of the Little House books).

I handed him a rural Nebraska magazine I’d just gotten in the mail. On the front cover was a picture of two cedar waxwings.

He exclaimed over how pretty they are, and asked the reason for their name. I pointed out the yellow and red waxy-looking tips on their tails and wings, and said that was why.

“Do you have any around your house?” he asked.

“No, we’ve never had them there,” I replied. “I haven’t seen them around Columbus since I was a little girl, and Mama pointed them out to me in our back yard.”

Then I told him the story of a huge flock of migrating cedar waxwings that arrived as scheduled in a little town in Iowa some years back. They showed up like clockwork every autumn, because Main Street was lined with cherry trees, and the birds feasted on the ripe berries before continuing on their southward flight.

The morning after the cedar waxwings arrived, citizens discovered, to their amazement, waxwings all over the sidewalks, streets, and yards, staggering along, unable to fly and barely able to walk.

After the initial horror dawned realization: the weather had been such that all the cherries on the trees had fermented. Those birds were drunk.

By late afternoon, the inebriation had worn off and the birds were able to fly again. And fly, they did – straight back up into the trees, where they again gorged themselves with the intoxicating cherries, again rendering themselves flightless.

I demonstrated, walking crookedly through the kitchen, crossing my eyes, and sticking out my tongue. Loren burst out laughing.

The bird-eat-cherry cycle repeated itself for several days until the cherries were all gone. Once the waxwings had recovered their wits, they continued their migration, hopefully with their compasses functioning properly again.

Don’t get too overwrought over this story, because other than crashing into windows and falling prey to opportunistic domestic cats, the birds were fine and dandy. According to an ornithologist at Cornell Lab, “Waxwings have large livers that can handle the ethanol, and won’t suffer any long-term effects from consuming the berries.” (Although getting eaten by a cat seems to me to be somewhat of a long-term effect.)

Anyway, as I drove home from Loren’s house, I was thinking about the effects of the drugs I’ve read about, and I know Loren is ever so much better without them. That may not be the case for everyone, but it certainly is for him – and I know from my research and forum-reading that many families regretfully report that their loved ones were seriously overmedicated, until the ‘real’ person could no longer be seen. Of course the disease itself causes that lack of cognizance seen in dementia patients; but too often it is very much exacerbated by over-medication. It’s too bad, it really is.

On the way to Loren’s house one afternoon, I was following one of the cement mixer trucks owned by friends of ours – in fact, the company is owned by the very man to whom that homemade kite once belonged. As the truck slowed to turn north on the bypass, I saw something black, round, and flat, about 4-5” in diameter, go rolling from the right rear side of the truck and into the median. I wondered if the tire on the tag axle had just run over something and sent it flying – but as we went around the corner, I noticed that the reflector was missing from the mud flap over the right tag wheel. The truck had hit a bump just before the turnout, and that reflector had evidently been jarred out of the flap. All that was left was an open hole. The reflector had rolled toward the median with the back side toward me, rather than the red reflecting side.

I debated letting them know, but I don’t imagine the thing is terribly expensive, and searching for reflectors in medians is probably no more of a productive use of time than chasing errant kites – particularly if one’s vehicle gets sideswiped whilst one is a-hunting.

Here are Larry and I with Keith, 1 ½, and Hannah, 6 months, on August 28, 1981. The photographer didn’t even try one iota to make the babies smile. They in turn stared at him like he had come zooming in from a distant planet. Just look at their faces, hahaha.

The jumper I am wearing was originally floor-length; I cut it to below-knee-length and used the excess to make Hannah’s pretend-jumper. I sewed my blouse, and used the leftovers for Hannah’s sleeves and neck ruffle, so it looked like a jumper and blouse but was all one piece.

Do you like my hat? (in a Dr. Seuss tone) 😄

A little after 6:00 Wednesday night, Loren called to inquire where the ‘meeting’ would be held that night.

I said, “In the same church where we usually go.”

“That’s good!” he exclaimed happily. Then, “They like to have it there so we don’t get mixed up.” He paused, then asked, “Are you going?”

I assured him I was, and he cheerily said he’d see me there.

These days, he has some trouble finding the references in his Bible. Larry often holds his Bible over closer to Loren, so Loren can see the page number. It really doesn’t seem to bother him much, that he forgets so many things. I’m glad for that; it would be worse if it made him sad.

Larry didn’t get home from work in time to go to church that night. But he was home by the time I got back, and we then went to Kurt and Victoria’s for Larry’s 61^st birthday. Victoria had made him pumpkin chiffon pie. Andrew, Hester, and Keira were there, too, and a couple of other friends.

When I called Loren at 3:00 Thursday afternoon, he didn’t think he wanted me to bring him any supper, because he ‘needed to get ready for the meeting’.

“What meeting?” I asked.

“At the... um... somewhere... I guess... a church?” he wondered.

“We don’t have a meeting at our church tonight,” I told him. “Our meeting was last night.”

“No, I’m talking about that other church,” he said.

“What other church?” I asked.

He didn’t know the name of it, but said, “It must be another Baptist church.”

“Where is it?” I asked.

He finds it hard to answer questions, but finally decided, “It’s off to the southwest.”

(That’s what direction our church is, from his house.)

I told him, “Well, I don’t know about it; I don’t go to any other church.”

(I tried to sound sort of disapproving and self-righteous, both at once – you know, to make him wonder if he should even be talking about another church, heh heh. Like this: “Well, I don’t go to any other church.”)

He laughed like that was pretty silly, and then wondered what day it was. He mentioned that he did have the time of our Wednesday night meetings on his calendar, but nothing about Thursday’s meeting, and slowly seemed to be reconsidering his plan.

So I said, “I’ll bring some food in about an hour, will that work okay?”

He decided he was hungry, after all, and that would be fine.

By the time I got to his house a little before 4:00, he had apparently forgotten all about attending a meeting at some ‘other church’.

I headed back out the door a little later, after blithering on about various inconsequential matters (me doing the blithering, that is, not him). He inquired as to whether the broccoli was good for him, peering into the bowl and acting sort of like Tiger kitty when I squirt medicine into his Fancy Feast. I assured him it was the best part of the entire meal.

“I guess I’d better eat it, then,” he said, and grinned at me.

As I went down the steps to his front door, he got up and followed me, saying, “It seems like there was something else...”

He looked for clues in the living room.

I looked, too, and said, “Well, I hunted for anything I might like to cabbage onto, but so far I’ve only got my own dishes.”

So he laughed and shooed me out the door, thanking me for the food. I didn’t ask if his ‘thanks’ included the broccoli. And I didn’t mention the ‘other church meeting’ – which was probably what he was trying to remember.

There have been a number of times through the last year and a half when he didn’t know where he was supposed to go for ‘the meeting’. So far, he’s only gone to people’s houses – ours, and our nephew and niece’s – instead of the church.

I told this story to a few other members of the family, saying, “So don’t be too surprised if Loren mistakenly defects to another church.” 😏

I finished another photo album that day and started on the next. Here’s Keith at six months.

This one where he’s on the floor on his stomach – we called that the ‘before-the-crawl’ stage. He’d throw his arms back, rock on his tummy, kick and wave his arms, and then put his hands down on the floor and pop back up, looking around to see if he’d gotten anywhere. 😅

By the time another month rolled around, he’d gotten the hang of it.

Friday I changed the sheets on Loren’s bed and gathered the towels and washcloths in his bathroom, along with his clothes. By suppertime, all of his laundry, and ours, too, had been washed, and the last load was in the dryer.

When I quit scanning photos for the night, 141 were done, which is a decent number, especially when it’s these old ones that need so much editing. Most are blurry, and many have bad color, as they are fading (or were perhaps not good in the first place).

Here is Keith with Calico Kitty. He loved that kitty, and she loved him. Keith learned to pet gently and never grab fur at a very young age, as did all our children.

Saturday, I put albums back into one tote and opened up the last of the bins in my office. There are ten albums in the bin.

I heard a little twitter, then a ‘chip-chip’ noise, looked quickly out the window – and discovered the dark-eyed juncos are back! There they were, hopping merrily about in their dapper gray tuxedos with the pristine white shirts.

I filled the bird feeders, folded the last load of laundry, washed the dishes, cleaned out the litter boxes 😜, and scanned some photos.

Here’s Keith at about 9 months. I entitled it, “Life is slippery when you’re little!”

The next two photos were taken on Keith’s first birthday, February 22, 1981.

And then it was time to call Loren. He didn’t seem to think he needed any food that afternoon. Sometimes he worries that it’s ‘too much’ for me.

“I need to return your laundry and reset your clocks for standard time anyway,” I said. “So I might as well bring you some food!”

“Sarah Lynn was here yesterday, and she has already done that,” he informed me.

“I’m Sarah Lynn,” I told him. “This is me, and I didn’t change any of your clocks yet.”

He laughed, but was quite sure someone had already set his clocks back.

“What time is it on the one on the north wall?” I asked.

He looked at it. “3:01,” he answered.

“That one’s not changed,” I said. “What about the one above the refrigerator?”

He went to see. “3:02,” he told me.

“That one’s not changed, either,” I said. “So I’ll come and change your clocks when I bring some food, okay?”

He agreed that that would be okay after all.

When I returned his clothes and linens, I put the new Dockers pants and a few new undershirts into the mix. Reckon he’ll notice?

“Will the time change confuse your brother?” asked a friend.

The only way the time change confuses Loren is when I neglect to reset one of his many clocks. The one I miss, it seems, is invariably the one he goes by.

Last year, I found all the clocks except one of the three alarms in his bedroom. That’s the one he looked at the next few days.

Last spring, I remembered all his clocks – and forgot his wristwatch. When he came to church late for the second time in a row, he showed his watch to a friend as he came in the door, wondering how he could be late – and the friend realized he hadn’t set his watch forward.

Someone asked me, “What will you do with your extra hour? Sleep an extra hour?”

“I can always find something to do – and that probably won’t be sleeping,” I answered. “There are lots of things to do!” 😁

That evening, Teddy brought over some gifts: a couple of travel-sized My Pillows, one for each of us, along with a box of lamb steaks and roasts and burger from one of their sheep that they had butchered. I have never cooked any kind of lamb meat. I was going to get some at the store a few years ago, but changed my mind when I saw the price. Guess I’d better do some research, so I can fix it properly!

The photo album I’m scanning now is from Teddy and Amy’s wedding, October 13, 2002. Here’s our family, with Black Kitty photobombing the shot, and half the kids looking at her and laughing.

Early Sunday morning found me curling my hair, drinking coffee, and reading the funnies. Sometimes the comments under the comics are funnier than the comic itself. Case in point: under a comic showing someone tickety-tapping on a typewriter, a commentator wrote, “I have always used the Columbus Method: discover a key and land on it.” Another wrote, “The Biblical version of ‘Hunt and Peck’ is ‘Seek and Ye Shall Find.’”

When Larry called Loren at 8:30 a.m., he said he thought he was getting a cold, and didn’t feel like going to church.

Ten minutes later, we got a notification that he was going somewhere. “Uh, oh,” we both said in unison, wondering, What now?

But he only went to a nearby convenience store, probably for groceries or cough drops. He was home again ten minutes later.

After the morning service, Victoria told us we could stop by; she had roast, potatoes, carrots, and onions for us and for Loren, too.

While at their house, Violet showed me a little purple and white stuffed puppy that plays songs and talks. When one button is pushed, the little dog says, “I’m sleepy!” and makes appropriate puppy-snoring noises. At the end of that, a cute little tune plays.

Violet, who’s three years old, explained, “When I was little, I used to think this button just talked; but then I wealized it played a song, too!”

Just like her Mama at that age, Violet likes long words. Sometimes when someone tells her a fairly innocuous piece of information, she, with blank face and big eyes, says, “That’s incwedible.” 😆

When we took Loren his food and asked how he was feeling, he said, “I’m fine today! But I sure didn’t feel very good yesterday.”

He must’ve gone back to sleep after talking with Larry, and woken back up thinking it was a new day. He wondered why we were all dressed up, and was quite surprised to learn it was Sunday. He evidently forgot again after we left, because he didn’t go to the evening service.

After church last night, we went to Super Saver, bought a heaping cartload of groceries, and then hurried home, because Bobby and Hannah were coming to visit. They beat us here. We visited with them and fed them some of the groceries. They gave Larry a birthday gift of deer roast, potatoes, and carrots. Bobby smoked the roast in their Traeger grill for a couple of hours, and then they put it in the slow cooker with the potatoes and carrots. Yummy. (Yep, I had a couple of bites, too.) They also gave Larry a cute little jar of raw, unfiltered honey from Cedar Valley, Iowa, and a package of spices for the meat he grills.

It was a pretty day today, all blue-sky and sunny, with a temperature of 57°. It’ll be getting colder soon; there’s a possibility of snow Thursday night.

Here are pictures of each of the children at six months and when they were seniors in high school.