Summer's End

By Pam Hadder

It’s that time – I can taste the change in the night air; the last precious days of summer. There is this soft haze that filters all of the harsh edges, the scent of ripening permeates yards and gardens, and the afternoon sun gently gilds our world in antique gold.  I feel such comfort and nostalgia in these last sweet days of summer; I think of my grandma, Suzanna, on her farm wearing an old cotton sheath dress and rubber boots. She was my Mother’s mother, and the mother of nine children.  She raised her children through the Great Depression and lived through two World Wars. She lost her husband to cancer when she still had young children at home and a farm to run.  Grandma’s life was not easy.

Mostly I saw Grandma in the summer months; we’d drive out to the country in the family station wagon. I remember so many simple things that are framed in summer’s sunny hues, including pumping water from the old farm well.  I loved the iron taste of that cold, fresh water.  Of course, there had been plumbing at her farm for decades, and the old farm house that housed a family of eleven, plus great-grandpa, had been dismantled, and a smaller home located on the homestead. 

When my Mom was a kid my grandparents raised their own beef and pork.  They had a few dairy cows and chickens – some layers and some roasters.  So not only did Grandma prepare thousands of hearty meals, she helped to raise the lion’s share of the meat and grew the majority of their produce.  Those were the days when rural families had summer kitchens – a place to prepare cooked meals that wouldn’t heat the main house, and provided some relief to the cook in the open air.  Today we are more likely to BBQ or use a microwave – or use the oven anyway, because we have air conditioning!

I often hear from my Mom how Grandma was a phenomenal cook and baker – but by the time I came along she didn’t do much of either – I am sure she exhausted her interest and energies raising a big family through challenging times.  However, I was delighted when she’d offer “store bought” cookies from a clear glass jar hand-painted with colourful fruit – this was a treat we seldom had at home, where my Mom made mostly everything from scratch.  We’d play cards, she’d give us kids money to go the corner store for candy; and she’d nap on the couch with its embroidered black velvet cushions, snoring like a chainsaw.  I recall the Vogue tobacco tin on her window sill and the ever-presence of stale smoke, but I never saw her light up or inhale, or roll up the next smoke. I was a very active, snoopy kid and Grandma would look at me with such warmth and gentleness with her jet-coloured eyes – she got a kick out of me.  I know Grandma was a strict parent, but she showed more tolerance with us kids; grandparenthood typically mellows the disciplinarians among us. I only recall Grandma being angry with me once – I was seven or eight and we were playing Crazy Eights at her tiny kitchen table; “You’re cheating, Grandma!”

My Grandma seemed so ancient to me and yet she was only in her early sixties when she died of bladder cancer – I was ten years old when she left us. My siblings and I used to call her the “old grandma” and our other grandmother in Montreal who wore tailored suits, and sent us sticker books and hand-knit woolens was the “nice grandma,” although we rarely saw her.  I wonder if our Mom heard our remarks and what she thought about it. I recall Old Grandma’s last months - In those days they wouldn’t let little kids into the hospital cancer wards. I remember waiting in the car while my Mom went in to visit Grandma.  Grandma passed away shortly after that visit and I never attended her funeral – my parents didn’t feel kids belonged at funerals, I guess. 

So it seemed to me that one day I was playing Crazy Eights with Grandma and the next she was gone. I have this photo of grandma holding me – she’s sitting on a white painted wooden chair. I love her horn-rimmed glasses and gingham dress.   And, yes, I still sleep in the same position: relaxed mountain climber, supported by "Grandma’s belly" (pillow and comforter surrogates).  Grandma is gazing off into the future; likely my snuggling and sleep-breathing is making her drowsy. Funny the things that stay with us – seemingly inconsequential, but profoundly shaping our perception and interaction.

Another Way?

I recently had an accident and broke my left wrist. It sounds clichéd, but for those of us who have had these experiences we know it’s the truth: a split second and life can be diverted along a completely new trajectory.  Naturally, I am overwhelmingly grateful that the outcome was not worse – broken bones, a bruised bottom, and pulled ligaments are minor in the larger scope of things; the pain is manageable and bones and tissues heal. I also believe these things occur to push us toward places and experiences we are meant to be.  Although, when I said I was overdue for a break from work, this was not what I had in mind!

I have only wept once during this situation, and it was not about pain or the inconveniences of my new one-handedness; it was because I miss playing guitar so much. My lovely girls, Pearl and Badessa, sit mute in their hard cases. They don’t miss my touch, but you should know I love and appreciate them so much that I kiss them after every session!  They are my confidantes, my collaborators, my oases from all of the pressures and stress of making a living and making my way in this complex world. With the girls in mind, I asked the doctor, deftly shaping my temporary cast, if moving my fingers would harm the fractures in my wrist. Happily the answer was “no.” As soon as that back slab was in place, I began gingerly forming air chords and scales with my injured hand, longing for what was temporarily impossible.

As I was leaving the hospital, the doctor ushered me to a computer station and showed me my x-rays. I felt a warm flush of thankfulness. My bones had not been displaced by my sudden, hard fall; they were healthy and strong. The doctor allowed iPhone photos of the screens; later I marveled at the smooth white structures on my x-rays, particularly the intricate bones of the hand. We are fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139:14).

At home and evaluating the repercussions of my injuries, another cause for concern surfaced – my dear Mother has been counting on me for the past few months.  She’s had eye surgery and cannot drive, so once a week we arrange an outing, and I take her to run errands, grocery shop and so forth.  It is never a hardship; it has been a nice opportunity for us to bond and share more than a few laughs. I knew Mom appreciated my willingness and patience, and I recognized how fortunate I was to have a loving mother.  Mom is very healthy, but she’s getting up in years, and she has given so much of her time and energy to her seven children. I wanted to do everything and anything possible for her; so, I worried about my Mom, feeling frustrated that our activities had been curtailed.  I texted my son, my adult daughters, my work contacts and called my Mom.

Yesterday evening Mom called me out of the blue – it was 9:30 p.m. and she had been thinking about me all day:  was I in pain, was I able to sleep; how was I managing. Touched by her concern, I assured her the pain was not too bad – it only hurt when I “forgot” about my broken bones and tried to use my left hand “normally.”  I told Mom that I had finally broke down and took some pain medication – just over-the-counter stuff; because I had refused any prescription pain killers at the hospital. My main reason for succumbing to pain meds was the pulled muscles and ligaments in my right leg which had given me an instant pirate swagger - that might look funny in the movies, but it is no fun in reality. I knew I needed to address that inflammation and keep my body moving. At bedtime I self-administered reiki healing; I had been doing so a few times throughout the day since the incident. I closed my eyes and focused on the pulsing sensation and heat, as directed energy passed over the areas of injury.  I imagined the bones knitting together, glowing with white light. Afterwards I was calm and sleepy – momentarily drained of mental and physical energy.  I reflected with gratitude on my Mom's concern for me and I remembered Mom telling me about a man in her small town when she was a child – he had healing hands, and a gift for setting bones.  Supported by a cloud-like network of cushions and pillows, I drifted into peaceful, comfortable sleep and dreamed of a blue cat and playing guitar.

Midnight, day two, I lay awake – more realities and practicalities were settling in.  I pondered being limited to clothes that would accommodate the bulk of a cast and which allowed for toileting – there would be no help with pants, buttons and zippers at work. What if there was an emergency at work (I work for a women’s crisis centre with limited staffing) – my right leg buckled from time to time, and my left arm was limited in range of motion and ability. I wondered if the doctor would allow me to drive to work – my return trip commute is about two hours each day; I had not considered I might not be able to legally drive with my injuries.

Morning, day three, bathing was a drawn out ritual – like trying to scrub a floor with a feather.  I still feared the shower where I slipped and fell, and so I opted for a bird bath using the sink basin, soap and washcloths. I celebrated being able to grasp my deodorant stick, only to plummet to despair when I found I could not apply adequate pressure to adequately glaze my right underarm with the product.  I satisfied myself with several feeble applications over the same area.  I thought about how hard Mom always worked and how nice she always smelled.  As a kid, I knew when she was going out somewhere special – the scent of Cover Girl face powder, hairspray and a hint of floral cologne. I awkwardly applied a little guava and peach body crème; coaxing two able fingers from my injured hand to pull their weight in the process, and taking care to massage the ligaments and muscles of my right leg. I was temporarily house-bound, but Mom would approve – I was training to "get back out there" as soon as I am able, a butterfly beating its wings against hard glass.