For a long time now, I've been working on cleaning out my parents' house and getting it ready to sell. Dad's been gone for almost three years, and Mom's been residing at "Antique Village" for nearly a year.
What's the hold up on the house, then, you might ask.
Well, let's just say there's been some ugly conflict regarding issues of financial elder abuse with a family member. Personally, I don't think it's ethical to "borrow" money from an elderly person who displays cognitive impairment. Nor do I think it's okay to "convince" that person to alter legal documents drawn up when the person was of sound mind. But, hey, that's just me! Oh, and it's the law. Someday, I'll record the whole, disgusting affair.
Anyway, among the, literally, tons of detritus of long-lived lives--the broken lamps, wobbly space heaters, ancient college text books, rusty tools, bent beach chairs, frayed towels, stained pillow cases, chipped dishes, burned pots and greasy pans--treasures have been rediscovered and buried memories brought to the surface.
My father's early college career, studying engineering, was interrupted by World War II. He was a PFC and Tech 5, eventually winding up in Europe, serving in General Patton's Third Army. After the war, he continued his education, but shifted his course of study to geology. He eventually earned a Master's degree in that field.
Sometime around 1949 or 1950, he was recruited to join a relatively new organization called the Central Intelligence Agency. He went to work there, starting off as a cartographer, and then serving as an intelligence officer before becoming a branch chief in the assessments of foreign missile/space research and development programs. The family consensus has been that he did not enjoy his work, particularly later on in his career.
All this is a matter of semi-public record, I guess. But more important to me than all the discovered letters, commendations, certificates, service medals, photos, and so forth, from the CIA, was the long-forgotten collection of rocks and shells and coral and wood that I came across while sorting through my parents' things. This collection was a manifestation, I think, of his first love--geology. It was poorly maintained, and I wound up chucking most of it, keeping only the most attractive, intact pieces. Life, and the need to earn a living, took him away from that love, but, along the way, he instilled in me an appreciation of the beauty of the natural world.
See that group of flat, striped shell pieces at the bottom right? They're from Nag's Head, North Carolina, where our family often vacationed when I was a child. All equally beautiful and no two alike. And the red, petrified wood. I almost can hear my father trying to explain to me what that was when I was small.
There's rose quartz and a piece of a geode. Moon snail and oyster shells. Coral and polished rocks. There's a piece of driftwood and some fossil plant fragments.
Do you see the two Lucite discs? One contains a miniature crab, and the other a tiny ocean scene, complete with seaweed, shells and a seahorse. I was intrigued by these as a youngster. I still am.
Later, when my father was in a nursing home before he died, I took shells and rocks for him to look at when I went to visit. I made things to decorate his room from the bits of the natural world that we have here where I live. He was always appreciative and, humoring me, took an interest in the things I showed him.
(Fossils from Calvert Cliffs.)
(Ornaments I made from local fossil shells.)
Both of my parents were from backgrounds and of an age when many people created their own decorations and art work, out of necessity. Home-made, hand-crafted items were sources of family pride, and Mom and Dad have carried on that tradition. They've created paintings, made decorations, braided and hooked rugs, knit sweaters, mittens and afghans, carved wood and made and finished furniture.
(A painting done by my father's paternal aunt, Louise Larsen Elwell, of an ancestral homestead in Norway. This painting has been in the family since I was an infant.)
(A braided rug my mother made. I love the colors.)
(A hooked rug, also made by my mother. The flowers make me think of snails!)
(Above and below, sketches by me.)
I appreciate that my family has had this tradition of creative expression. I know most families do, as well, but each family and tradition is unique, and that's why it's so special in every instance.
Recently, my mother's been asking me often if I'll be taking up rug braiding or knitting or sewing, in such a way that conveys that anything different, like drawing or painting, isn't enduring or worthwhile. I never said my mother didn't have a little bit of a nasty streak, which has become more pronounced with the dementia.
I gently and lovingly remind her that during her last Mini Mental Status Exam, she couldn't replicate two intersecting pentagons for the neuropsychiatrist. So there.
(Just kidding.)
Recent Comments