Haunted by the past

                           

  Haints in the Side Yard

I just birthed another book. It's an odd feeling. Even though I've written all my life, ever since I learned how to form sentences in first grade, I never expected to have actual books out in the world. Now there are seven.

I wrote, as a child, because I could. I knew how to transfer words in my mind to paper. I could save them up ---- and I have. I could go back and read them later, and recreate the experience all over again. That seemed like magic. It still does.

Fifty-three years worth of journals repose in the blue bookcase in my upstairs room. Everything up there is dusty. I don't go upstairs often, though it's a cozy space. But my writing desk and now-stationary laptop are downstairs, and steps can seem daunting. Plus it's Buddy the Doggy's favorite place, his man cave. He can keep an eye on the neighborhood from up there.

The other day, I mentioned a long-ago incident from when my son was five years old. I became curious; memory is a tricky beast. One of the reasons I write things down is to keep myself from making things up. So I trotted upstairs and pulled that volume from the shelf, blew off the dust, pounded the couch pillow (cough, cough) and sat down to find the magic of the written word.

Life goes by day to day. In the morning, we never know what's going to happen. Something life-changing can occur at any moment. The thing is, often we don't even recognize it when it does. I was 29 years old in February of 1980. Andrew was still in his Superman phase. He spent two years in full regalia most of the time. I was feeling my oats as well --- living with my folks for free in the Azores, a fulltime Portugese grandmother to take care of Andrew by day and plenty of childcare at night as well. Single, ripe, and fancy free on an Air Force base is the stuff lurid lit is made of, and I was trying my best to live up to the genre.

What I remembered so vividly was the decision to send Andrew to live with his father in the States. In hindsight, 35 years later and 33 years sober, it was pivotal. It was the beginning of the end of my drinking. It was the realization that I was hurting my child and he needed a "normal" life. It was fear that I couldn't control myself and might actually harm him sometime. So I sent him away, rather than change myself. That, right there, that's addiction.

In my journal from February 1980, it rates a small paragraph, spliced in between accounts of cast parties, flirtations, speculation and drunkalogue. I have no way of knowing what would have happened if I had not sent him home. I'm dead sure it was the right thing to do, though once it happened, a few months later, I was bereft, and spent several pages lamenting the loss and wondering whether I would ever get him back. I did, but it took three years and getting sober before it happened.

I still keep a journal. It's sporadic. I'll write intensely when my mind is crammed and my life is feeling out of control. Then I'll go a month or two without writing at all. But I never quit. Every so often I go back and check myself like this, check in on my old self. There's a lot I don't remember. Things that seemed catastrophic at the time, have disappeared entirely from my memory. People, too. I'm surprised at how memory works, and doesn't work.

When I face a perplexing decision or emotionally-charged situation, I try to project ahead to the end of my life and look back on the present. It usually helps to change my perspective that way. Puts things in focus. In the meantime, while regular, sweet, boring life unfolds, I do what I can to stay awake to what's in front of me and, when inspired, write it down in my journal.

The new book is  called Haints in the Sideyard, a sequel to Way Out in Dog Heaven. Do you know what a haint is?

Act III, or is it IV?

The move is complete and the learning begins. I have discovered a few things about my mom during this process, and no doubt there is much more to come. It's also an initiation by fire into the world of Alzheimer's disease.

I don't know how many people in the US have this disease right now.What's certain is that the Baby Boomers are aging and we ain't seen nothing yet! My father had it, died of it in 2003, and it looked different in him than what I see now. Much of that was probably because my mother, dear heart that she is, shielded us from it as much as she could. Until just before he went into the nursing home, she put a good face on things and made it look manageable. I'm only beginning to see how unmanageable it probably was for her.

Discovery #1, as we were packing for the move: my mother has way more sexy lingerie than I do.

Discovery #2: Even thought she can't remember where she lives or where her room is, she can still crack jokes.

Discovery #3: My love of all things from the office supply store is genetic. She's the only person I know who has more pens, pencils, erasers, paperclips, envelopes, unused greeting cards, markers and post-its than I have. I do have her beat when it comes to hole punchers, though.

Discovery #4: She actually missed some of the housekeeping tasks she had someone else doing for her the last five years. Her housekeeper came once a week to clean the apartment and change the bed. Now it turns out that she likes hanging out clothes and folding them after they're dry, sweeping the floor, washing the table, washing up pots and pans and dusting. Who am I to say no? Actually, we work together.

I think that we will develop some routines over time. There is still a lot of unpacking and putting away to do, and some decision making as well. We weeded out her overstuffed closet to the tune of 5 bags of clothing and shoes for goodwill. Next comes the desk. Does she really need a package of 20 large manila envelopes?

But so far, we do some housework after breakfast, take Buddy to the dog park, run any errands like the grocery store and come home to fix a little lunch. After lunch, she likes to read and nap. That gives me writing time and a chance to catch up with facebook and email. Before you know it, it's time to feed the dogs and fix supper, watch a little tv or look at pictures and we actually all go to bed at a reasonable hour. Regular meals and regular bedtimes. Sounds like there's a mother in the house!

The parts that don't show are the hard ones. I have to direct her to the bathroom, to her bedroom, find her book and her glasses. I hear the beep, beep of the alarm as she opens the garage door looking for her room or for something she can't even tell me. She falls asleep all askew on the couch and I'm afraid she'll get a crick in her neck. She wanders around touching books, photos, furniture, looking puzzled. She sits and watches the leaves flutter, the birds at the feeder, the clouds above. She tells me she's homeless. She's not always sure who Jill is. She worries that Jack needs her then forgets that she saw him only a few hours ago. She cries because she can't think, can't remember, is afraid, worries that she is a burden. I answer every question as though it's the first time. I give her clues about navigation and hold her hand to show her the way. I help her with medicine, showers, dressing, rebutton her clothes, comb her hair, tell her I love her. Soon enough, she'll forget it all.

And yes, sometimes I worry that I'm next in line. But right now I have more important things to do, like taking care of my mother, and staying close to my wife. Like writing 50,000 words of a new novel in the month of November. And watching the birds at the feeder.