...and now, for something completely different...

ChiChai

There once was a gal named Trish
Who had a very strange fish
It could do Tai Chi
It could drink chai tea
And would only grant her one wish

Aunt Pat's daughter emailed me about a tough weekend...

Had quite a day Sat. as Bill (Mom's boyfriend) took it upon himself to go & take Mom out of the nursing home & take her home. Had a bunch of people pretty shook up. My son Daryl got called & came & told me so all of us went to Mom's Daryl, Audrey, Lee & I.

Talk about a scene. Bill threatened all of us with guns if we tried to take Mom back. Police got called by the home staff. It was a mess. Finally got Mom into a police car & took her to ER at the hosp. APS got called. Once we got Mom away from Bill we could calm her down & reason with her. It went on from around 10 a.m. til 4:30. She was given the choice of being taken to a psych ward in Las Cruces or go back to the home. So she chose to go the home but thinks she will be there only a few days more.

Now I was told by the multiple of people that got involved that I have no choice but to get a lawyer & try get legal guardianship. After all those hours of trauma & gun threats & a ride to the hospital by police. Just before we took her back to the home she looked at Audrey & said what happened to me anyway how did I wind up here in the hosp. No memory at all what had gone on all day...

An email conversation between my second cousin, Deanna, and myself:

From: "Deanna Anderson"

Talked to mom again today and she was told today that Grandma Pat may not go home at all. They said her memory is definitley a factor and her mind is so bad that she no longer controls her own rights, Mom does not have Power of Attorney because it was never officiated but she does have something they told her is "surrogate". Her name is also on the house, cars, and all accounts. Grandma has real lucid moments but then a few minutes later she will forget what was told her. Everything else is coming back slowly but she was given a memory test this morning and she did not do well at all. Mom has a meeting tomorrow regarding all this so she will let me know what happens with that. One year at Thanksgiving (about 3 years ago) my fmaily and I were in Las Cruces NM and we went to T or C for the day. Harriet, Gordon, Gram. Pat, my brother and his family and mom were all there. When I went home friends of ours asked what we did for Thanksgiving and I told them I sat around with my grandmother and great-aunt and told jokes. No one believed me! :)
___________________

My response:

Boy, that sure sounded good, that Thanksgiving you're talking about! I wish I could have been there. I brings smiles to my face and tears to my eyes all at the same time. I can just imagine that group all together! I'll tell you, my folks and your grandparents had some fun times together in their little house in Bemidji when I was growing up, playing cards and getting the giggles!

I think the leaning towards Pat staying in the home is safer for her. Did I tell you I worked there in 1985? It was a nice place then, and I know they were doing a lot of work to it improving it since then, according to Mom. In fact, she and Dad had once thought about moving into their assisted living but never did. Partly that was because we talked them into coming back here. I'm glad we did - We got to be with them for a few months before Dad passed away, and we could be there for Mom. If they had stayed there, it would have been harder on everyone.

Mom talks about her years in TorC very fondly. I often wondered why they didn't travel more before Dad got Parkinson's, but I guess my parents were rather conservative that way. They loved family and friends and a nice home more than rambling all over creation. They did talk years ago about retirement travel, that the good old US of A had plenty to see without going overseas, which is true enough! They did get to see a lot of the southwest, and continued doing train trips to Chicago to visit my sister Sharon. They even came out to California to see me in the 1980's a couple of times, which is saying something, since my Mom hated with a vengence California (it had something to do with bad memories from living there during WWII...) Even my old cat Dusty made the trip, and my daughter Eva, who knew Dusty, took him with her for 'show and tell' to her Kindergarten class in Long Beach, CA! That cat was one travelled kitty!! *smile*

Well, we'll talk more tonight. Betty hopes to get online. I hope Eva can be, too...

My cousin Deanna (my Aunt Pat's granddaughter) emailed me letting me know how she was. Aunt Pat recently had a stroke, losing her speech, etc. She's in a nursing home, but the doctors are giving optomistic prognoses. She has started speaking again, but has serious memory problems.

I'm glad to know the doctors are being so positive for Aunt Pat. I know that time marches on, but it's so hard to think of her this way. She will always be in my memory as this fun, strong woman...

My Mom is doing well. She, too, has her moments with memory, but overall isn't too bad. For her, it's mostly missing my Dad. I always knew they loved each other a lot, but when he passed away, I found out a whole other level to that love on a more personal level. I have been the one that hangs out with Mom the most, and take her places. It's been a special time for me to get to know my Mom more as a woman and a peer rather than just 'Mom'!

She met Dad at age 16 and he was 19. He was her first and only love. It hit her very, very hard when he died. She's still mourning. She's gotten better, less crying jags, but she still gets very sad when she hears a train whistle. My Dad was always such a positive force in our family, teasing Mom and keeping things light. Mom had her moments, too, becoming a bit sentimental despite her tough exterior when she was around certain people.

Mom and Aunt Pat have always been very close. They get cranky with each other sometimes, but really, I have always known they loved one another a lot, and had been there for each other many times over the years. Currently, Mom has been cranky because Aunt Pat wouldn't come visit because of her dogs!! I just smile and let her talk; she says, "I could drive her to the bar every day!" Yeah, right! She hasn't driven in 2 years!! It makes me sad knowing that she dreams of doing just everyday things but can't. I try to dwell on the positive, but the knowledge that she's slowly drifting away from me makes the time I spend with her bittersweet. It also makes it more precious. Mortality brings (or should bring) perspective...

Mom has been gone nearly a month now, visiting Sharon in Chicago. While it's wonderful having a break, it's a two-edged sword. I also miss her very much.

I wish I could find more ways to stimulate conversation with Mom when she's here. I've felt at times as though I'm missing precious opportunities to connect with her, either not knowing what to say, or being distracted during our times together. It's frustrating, not knowing how to talk to someone you love so much.

Mom's very quiet compared to the way she used to be. There are moments when she comes alive, but overall, definitely more quiet. It's like she's drawing within more, and we are being left behind. I imagine a whole world of memories inside her that she floats along day and night, whether in sleep or lost in thought. Train whistles immediately cause her pain, reminding her of Dad. Like Job, she continues to have a struggle with God about his wisdom in taking Dad but not her.

There's a side to Mom I've seen more of, though...it's her ability to have fun, to laugh...I saw some of it growing up, but I was a kid then, and she was busy being a mother and wife. Now, while still being mother and daughter, we are also women, hanging out together. The dynamics have changed. Time pushes us sometimes very reluctantly forward, into the mystery of the future. We laugh together at it...

A Kurdish family living in tents among ruins, in Kurdistan, Iraq

I recently 'met' a fascinating individual named Margareta. I say 'met' because it was over the telephone. Margareta called me out of the blue one evening, and after a puzzling introduction of herself, I began to understand her connection to me when she mentioned Meran. I asked about how she knew Meran, and a long story poured out...

She first met Meran as a ten year-old boy in a Turkish refugee camp several years ago in the late 1980's, after his family fled Iraqi Kurdistan (due to Saddam's persecution of the Kurds...) She was there in her capacity as an aide worker, and to observe the conditions of the refugees in the camps. I haven't had the opportunity to ask Margareta why she became attached to Meran as opposed to the many children she must have seen. But for whatever reason, she did. She told me that he struck her as very intelligent, warm, loving...and open. I also learned it was thanks to her special interest in Meran and his family, that they found out about the resettlement program that eventually led them to my area. In a very real sense, without Margareta, my daughter Eva would never have met Meran, and I would not have him as a son-in-law, nor would there be a Salih, Bilal, or Mu'min (my grandsons). I am in her debt, also...

Although I don't know Margareta like Meran does (he has kept in touch with her through all of these years, even asking her advice on whether or not to go to Iraq for the job he's doing there right now - she said, by the way, that she thought he should, that he could have a very positive and important impact...), her caring came across very obviously in her voice as she talked about him. She is an older lady, a native of Sweden, that divides her time between Vermont (where one of her children lives) and Sweden. She said she has had an avid interest in human rights, particularly the Kurds, for many years. The Kurds, she said, are a kind and generous people...a people that the other ethnic groups in the region, could take a lesson from in how to cooperate and live together. She has never been affiliated with a particular NGO or aide group, but freelances where and when she sees fit.

A person like Margareta is someone I greatly admire. I often contemplated doing work like she has actually done. All of us can do what we can wherever we are, so there is no real excuse, is there?

The poem below was written by Margareta about Meran. It is all true, based on recollections and memories shared with her by Meran. It was published in a book called "Kurdistan Times", a quarterly journal, published by the Kurdish Human Rights Watch, Copyright 1997...
__________________________

MY HOME IN KURDISTAN
By Margareta Hanson (Human Rights Activist)

My home, so
my father told me
was in a valley
in the mountains,
with a river
clear and cold,
its water running
from the snowfields.

In the garden
fruit trees grew.
We had cucumbers,
grapes and melons.
In the barn
there were, of course,
cows and sheep and
my father's horse.

In our home,
heated by
the baking oven
were handmade carpets
of all colors.
It was my home
until 1980 when
I was two years old.

Then came Saddam's soldiers.
Iraqi troops
bulldozed our house
and the barn,
destroyed the garden
and drove us out
from our valley
in the mountains.

Hunted, homeless,
frightened,
we had to flee.
My father's horse
carrying some
blankets, pots and pans
and my older brother
carrying me.

For years we walked
at night
lighted by the stars.
We were hungry,
cold and ill,
sleeping in a tent
as from place
to place we went.

Like that
we lived
until 1988
when I was
ten years old.
Then planes flew by
and chemical bombs
exploded in the sky.

I had run, was
hiding in the mountains.
When I returned I found
that my mother,
my father, and my brother
were laying dead.
Peshmergas helped me
bury them, and then I fled.

Four years went by.
I stayed with
thousands of other Kurds
in a Turkish camp.
We lived in tents.
For heat the sun,
for light at night
the shining stars.

Now I am in another world
of neon lights and cars.
Here in the United States
I go to school and work at night.
I call myself a man and say
"Forgotten in the pain,
I am on my way."

But when I sleep
I am a child at home
in the valley
in the mountains
with the river
cold and clear,
its water running
from the snowfields.

In the garden fruit trees grow.
We have cucmbers,
grapes and melons.
In the barn
there are, of course,
cows and sheep
and my father's horse.

In my dream
I clearly see them,
my father, my mothers
and my older brother,
in our home
in the valley
in the mountains
in my country, Kurdistan.

I am asking you, my friend,
is there a Kurdistan,
a land that is mine,
that will welcome me?
Is there a land of peace and democracy
where all people are free
and living in harmony?

Where hate and murder
does not exist
and every man and
woman is a friend?
If so, Kurdistan, I am
your long-lost son
who wants to go home
and never leave again!

I recently read an essay by a guy who grew up in the same area I did. He was recalling memories of the people he knew in his hometown, Humboldt, MN. His memories made me both laugh and cry. I remembered a lot of those things from my own acquaintance with Humboldt through people my family knew through school and church, as well as distant relatives or family friends.

For example, I identified with his loving memories of Alfred and Clara Loer. They were, indeed, two of the nicest people I've ever known. They were compassionate, loving, had great senses of humour, and were very positive people in their outlook on life. Alfred was supportive to me as a young girl when I had a horse and had problems figuring out where to find hay for my horse, or transport it, offering his farm truck. I remember a golden lab dog they had later on that had belonged to one of their girls originally, but they took him on. Alfred taught him tricks that he would show off to guests like us over for a Sunday afternoon dinner. Toyvo, yes, I think that was the dog's name...

My own children, Eva (age 24) and Daniel (age 21) lived in St. Vincent with my parents from March 1985 to August 1986, almost 18 months, while we were transitioning from California to Fargo. During that time, they attended church and school there, and got a small taste, especially Eva, of what I, and others of the older generation, grew up with. Eva has never forgotten walking down Grandpa and Grandma Short's road to catch the bus, or the town dogs, or the playhouse, or the barn...or Grandpa and Grandma's workshop...Eva remembers the open fields and sky, and the security of small town life, and treasures those memories. I am thankful that out of a sad situation (the eventual breakup of my marriage) came a very positive experience, living with my parents. My Dad and Mom both told me later that it was a very very special time for them, having us living with them. People asked them how they could handle it, after being alone so long and being retired, but Mom surprised me later by relating to me how she felt at the time - i.e., she considered that time period as one of the happiest for her and Dad. Later, after I moved down to the Fargo area, they took the kids and I on two family trips to Medora and Mount Rushmore in the late 1980's. Those have become great memories for all us, too.

St. Vincent is a ghost town now, little of what it once was is evident except to those who know its history. Families still live and grow there, but it's more like a settlement, a cluster of homes, for those who farm in the nearby fields, than a town. Community is still in the hearts of the people there, no doubt, but it's changed.

One thing that I've always felt about the river towns, as I call towns like Pembina/St. Vincent, Grand Forks/East Grand Forks, and Fargo/Moorhead, is that they are less separate than together. You can't really separate them from one another. Today, the most northern twin cities on the Red River of the North have shrunken greatly, but they are still very important to the people that live there, and to those that don't - we depend on them to grow the food we eat, and caretake the land that provides it...