Thanks—A Reflection to Someone Dear.

The last time I saw Frances, she was agitated, on the verge of tears, frantically pawing through her over stuffed, worn and tattered handbag, pulling out old tissues, packets of assorted condiments and a variety of oddities that to me seemed equally useless.
“Oh.” She worried, upon seeing my husband and I enter the room. “I’m looking for something, and I just can’t find it.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“I don’t remember”, she lamented, her face strained with frustration, her voice quivering.
“Well, if you don’t remember what you are looking for, how will you know when you find it?” I offered, attempting to put forth the voice of reason.
“I’ll know it when I see it,” she assured, her tone now firm and direct.
“Well,” I said again, really already weary of this, my heart sinking. I had been hoping for a more productive, pleasant visit, and those hopes had already taken their place among of the pile of junk Frances had piled in the middle of the table. “Why don’t you just leave it for now, and you will probably think of it later. That happens to me all the time.”
She was even closer to tears now, a pitiful, painful wailing sound, soft but distinct, making its way past her throat, her voice again quivering with frustration. “It’s important. I have to find it.”
And thus the conversation continued for several minutes as I urged her to give up this desperate search, attempting to pull her back into the world of reality, a world she seldom visited these days. It was my world, and I wanted her in it right then, if just for that moment. I felt terribly guilty as I was struggling with my own feelings: helplessness, anger, love, pity and frustration.
This is my dear mother in law, who took me into the family like the mother I never really had. She praised and loved, pulling me gingerly from behind the walls I had built around my heart: walls carefully built and zealously guarded. I was a hard case, with no intentions or desire to change. Life had hurt me, and I nurtured that hurt like a living creature, terrified to let it die, least I forget and open myself up to repeating the behaviors that had brought it about. I was distrustful of all humanity, myself most of all. I needed the pain to remind me of where it came from. I could not, would not forget.
Frances was sweetly oblivious to my walls, unknowingly poking holes through them each time she embraced me into her rich, loving family. Slowly, the small holes became windows, the windows morphed into doors, until eventually the walls had no structure or support. They didn’t so much tumble as simply disappear. I’m not sure when, I only know that eventually they just weren’t there. I can’t quite credit her with all of this process, but she played a crucial role. I never told her how much that meant to me.
She doesn’t remember any of this. She doesn’t remember anything, as Alzheimer’s has ravaged her mind and her life. My heart breaks as I witness this cruel destruction and loss of dignity. If ever a human being deserved all the grace of God, she does. My eyes search the nursing home for signs of that grace. I don’t see it.
I feel helpless. What can I do? What can I say?
I want to say “thank you,” but words are meaningless at this point. The only way I know now to thank her is to be here for her as she struggles, clearing the path if and when I can, and do the best to ease her way, as she eased mine. Thank you Frances, and I hope you some day find what you are searching for.






The Big Catfish
By Becky Culley

We were all gathered at my aunt and uncle’s house, which was one of my favorite places to go. My aunt was a pack rat, the house bursting to the seams, comfortably stuffed with old books, games and toys. It seemed to me that something interesting and exciting always happened, and this time turned out to be no exception.
We had decided on the spur of the moment to visit, and Mom had not taken the time to pack and prepare as much food as she usually did. After all, there were seven of us including my parents, and my aunt and uncle could certainly not feed that many extra people at a moment’s notice. Then, some other cousins and families popped in, so the question came as to what to prepare for dinner. It was a large bustling crowd, and growing hungry.
Daddy and Uncle Bob were picked to go to town, and they took me, about age seven and my little brother, one year younger. As we bumped along on the six mile journey to town, I noticed with childlike interest all of the flooded cotton fields from the recent rains. Daddy and Uncle Bob were discussing the recent floods also, when all of a sudden the car came to a screeching halt, Daddy jumped out, and without explanation took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his pant legs, and took off, admonishing my brother and me to stay in the car and not follow. We waited anxiously, as he took off across the field, in the direction of where I could now see something floundering in the muddy water, splashing muddy water onto the cotton plants, barely gaining their foothold in the wet spring soil.
I was excited and frightened. What was going on? Where was he going? Soon, he came back, triumphant, holding a huge catfish in his bloodied hands, the victor in the battle of man and fish. Uncle Bob found some rope in the car and made a stringer. Off Daddy went again, at times going out of site, but always when he came into view, he held up the stringer with even more fish. I was so tickled, bouncing and giffling with childish pleasure. Imagine! I really wanted to run out there, but Uncle Bob made me stay, disappointed but yet a little grateful for the safety.
When he finally decided that he had caught all of the fish that had washed into the field by the flood, and gotten trapped, Daddy came back to the car, tired, muddy and somewhat bloody from the catfish fins that had caught him. After all, this was really not a job to be done bare handed, but that is exactly what he did.
The adults decided not to go on into town, but to get back and clean the fish, and for Daddy to get cleaned up. He really was a mess, but all of us were excited about the fish and the way he caught them. What a hero! We would have a great fish fry! I could almost taste the fish, battered in cornmeal, deep fried, and served with onions, pinto beans and hush puppies. My mouth watered at the vision.
My mother was not quite as excited as we were. Well, she was, but hers was a different kind of excitement. We had been gone so long that she had started to fume and worry, and then when Daddy got out of the car all muddy, with blood on his hands and arms, and his pants rolled up, she just went hysterical. What was wrong with that woman anyway, I wondered? Couldn’t she see how really neat that was? And, if she would just quit screeching for a few minutes, we could tell the exciting story and show her the big stringer of fish that were in the trunk.
We did eventually get to that, and the whole family was excited. We had not gotten to town for supplies, but we certainly did have plenty of catfish for everyone. Dad skinned and cleaned the fish, my mother and my aunts fried them up with hush puppies and found some canned goods to add to the table. Meanwhile, brother and I regaled the cousins with the exciting tale of the big catfish and how we had helped Daddy catch them.