Adventures in Baking

Let me preface this story with an explanation. I take mother out to dinner several nights a week just to get us out of the house. It helps to socialize her and, after a tough day at work, it takes the chore of cooking and cleaning off my hands. Since the average restaurant is too noisy for me to deal with mother, I searched for a place that offered less noise and less public exposure of how I have to deal with a person in the advanced stages of Alzheimer's while at the dinner table. I discovered that the bar at our local Outback is much quieter than most places we patronized over the past three years. We sit on the side farthest from the main dining room and have somehow managed to become the occupants of the same table each time we visit - the last booth at the end of the bar by the restroom hall.

Remember the TV show Cheers? Well, that place exists right in my own back yard! The young people tending the bar and the wait staff in the bar section introduce themselves to everyone who enters and asks for their name. The servers create a white paper tent and write their names on one side and the patron's name on the other. The card is stood up on the bar in front of the guest with the employee's name facing the guest and the guest's name facing the other occupants of the bar. They do this for everyone. They chat with each individual and make everyone feel like they have known them for years. There is a running joke about being the 'bar wife' or 'bar husband' of regular patrons. They rib them when they hear a regular has patronized another establishment. It is a very cozy environment. For a long time I enjoyed observing the camaraderie from our little booth with just a tinge of jealousy. Dinner conversation with mother is, to say the least, nil. I never expected these delightful young people to include some old lady and her mother into their 'bar' world.

However, it wasn't long before we merged into the fold. First, they had to learn our routine. I don't know how many times I had to tell them not to bring bread to the table. Mother's little hands would snake out and snatch it before I could ward them off. I am sorry to say that we are high demand, high maintenance customers. "No bread. Don't let her touch the silverware. Don't put her drink in front of her. Take the table tents away. Put her food on a cold plate. Bring an extra plate for me to put her food on. Don't refill her glass or you'll get to change her diaper. Put that on the other end of the table. Don't cook our steak until she has completely finished her salad. No croutons on her salad." Sigh. You see my routine. Dining out with mother is complicated and not a lot of fun, but staying home and washing dishes is even less so. If I were to write our needs down on paper for each new waiter I'd have to carry what would be tantamount to the Dead Sea Scrolls. I can't imagine what the staff said about me back in the kitchen or break room.

After a while they memorized our needs and ordering our meal went from being an ordeal with a series of demands and reminders about what not to bring to our table to a smooth, seamless dining event. (If anything can be considered smooth and seamless with mom.) With less detail to remember and worry about, all I needed to do was pick which meal: A - 10 oz rib eye, B - plain chicken, or C - the salmon. I no longer had to tell them what kind of dressing for mother's salad, and her tea arrived in a child's cup with a lid on it every time.

So now you know why we can be found in a bar several nights a week. But, even though I do not want to be home cooking every evening, I miss tinkering around in the kitchen. I decided I would get in the kitchen on weekends and do some practice cooking for the upcoming holidays. My only dilemma was what to do with the food. I needed to find a way to get rid of food that mother certainly couldn't have and, truth be told, I should also not be eating. With no plans of big family dinners at my house, what was I to do with all the stuff I had in my mind to make? Ah hah! I had an epiphany! Broke college kids tending bar will eat anything!

My first efforts at beer batter bread a couple of years ago were okay. I didn't like the consistency and was looking for something more in the way of a holiday type of bread with different flavors, so I began the experiment anew. The first two loaves had the weight of a missile. The dogs watched in anguish as I chunked them in the trash. After pages of notes and modifications, refer to photo above, the next two efforts were edible, not moist enough for my end goal, but I took them to the bar and asked the gang for their input. The kids at the restaurant slathered the loaves with butter and wolfed the bread down like it was a tasty morsel indeed. Proof they'll eat anything. After a few weeks of polishing on the recipe, I hit success. I knew it must have been good when the bartenders started hiding the pans below the counter out of sight of the other waiters. I would arrive with a bag in hand and the words 'bread's here' would pass from one waiter to the next. We had running discussions on which flavors they liked while I worked on my hand written notes prior to the arrival of our meal. They kept up with my progress like they had a vested interest in this study. Oh, yeah, they did - they were hungry! Homemade bread trumps McD's dollar burger any day. I'd walk in and be asked by total strangers, "Are you the lady who made the awesome bread?" I had gained a reputation that needed to be lived up to.

Cookies were next to conquer. I wanted something easy without 37 ingredients that required spending most of my time measuring and mixing. I Googled a few recipe ideas, but decided to launch out on my own. I mean, how wrong can one go with this? Every other cookie recipe seemed to have the same basic ingredients, just too many steps for me. Most called for the same cook time and temp, and almost every recipe called for dropping the dough on an UN-GREASED baking sheet. Guess what I learned? WRONG WRONG WRONG. Don't believe some cooking diva's directions. They must have rabid badgers cleaning their kitchens behind them after the show. I scraped 24 cookies off three pans with the sharpest knife I could find. Wasn't working. I ended up soaking the pans, cookies and all, in water until they could be removed. Does anyone know what wet bread dough in the bottom of the kitchen sink feels like? Ick! I pulled out the parchment paper and started over.

My local grocery store put cake mixes on sale one day, and I had a stroke of genius hit. Cake mix has flour, salt, baking powder and flavoring already measured and mixed together. All one needed to add would be something to make it moist to bind it in dough form. I stacked the cart full of every flavor marked down. I spent the first afternoon making four dozen dark chocolate fudge cookies. The smell of warm chocolate cookies wafted in the door of Outback with my entrance. I melted the heart of every man in the bar. When the smell hit them they transformed before my very eyes from grizzled cowboys and weary businessmen into eight year old boys with the memories of days gone by in their mothers' kitchens.

A few nights later, one of the floor managers came to my table to check on us. He told me that he wanted to post a note in the break area to notify everyone he'd pull rank on them when the next batch of goodies were due for delivery, because the last batch of chocolate cookies disappeared in nothing flat. I assured him I brought plenty this time. I was informed I was incorrect - there would never be enough chocolate cookies coming from my kitchen. They all agreed I needed to keep practicing.

hhhhmmmmmmmm I wonder why?

Then I made the mistake of being bored one Saturday and decided to roll five pounds of hand made meatballs in my Italian sauce. Now that was a scent that made everyone in the bar turn when I walked in. I got so much attention newcomers looked around to see if Beyonce entered the room.
[For those of you who know what I look like - I HEARD THAT!]

The only downside to the situation is when I get a new waiter. "No bread, no tea, don't put that there, don't do this, don't do that. Here's a cookie." They look bewildered until a regular staffer can take them aside to explain that I am not just any demanding old battle axe. I am the demanding old battle axe that brings goodies.

Oh, one more thing. I forgot an important line in the bread recipe. Remember that the beer goes into the bread mix, not the bread mixer. Drink wine instead. Your product will turn out much better. At least, you'll think so . . .

Cheryl's Beer Batter Bread

large mixing bowl
very sturdy wooden or mixing spoon or paddle
2 ~ 8 x 3 7/8 aluminum loaf pans
Canola oil spray (or any non stick spray)
3 ~ cups regular flour
1 ~ cup sugar
1 & 1/2 ~ tsp salt
3 ~ tsp baking powder
1 ~ 12 oz bottle beer

Preheat oven to 400 degrees
In mixing bowl, whisk together all dry ingredients
Pour in full bottle of beer and mix with sturdy utensil until all dry ingredients are wet.
Batter will be heavy and sticky to handle.
Divide in half. Spray loaf pans just before you are ready to put batter in them.
Dampen your hands and smooth down batter in pan - wet hands will keep the batter from sticking to you.
Bake in oven for 45 minutes. Don't open the door. Don't be checking on it. Heat must stay consistent.

I melt a stick of real butter in a small sauce pan and pour some butter on the top to coat the top and sides. It's a dense loaf. The butter will make cutting easier, and it makes it richer.

For a less sweet version, cut sugar in half.

Flavor twists:
Pumpkin / 2 Tbsp pumpkin pie spice & 1 tsp cinnamon

Orange / Orange Shock Top beer & 1 Tbsp orange flavor emulsion or extract

Lemon / Orange Shock Top beer & 1 Tbsp lemon flavor emulsion or extract / 2 Tbsp poppy seeds if desired

Cinnamon Pecan / 1 cup chopped pecans & 1 Tbsp cinnamon

When adding to a recipe, always add dry ingredients to the dry ingredients and wet ingredients to wet mixture.

No Brainer Cookies

Cheryl's Twist on Cookies

Any boxed cake mix will do.
Heat oven to 350 degrees

In large bowl whisk together dry cake mix and 1/2 cup sugar.

In microwave bowl melt 1 stick butter or margarine for 20 seconds. Butter will not be completely melted. Add to butter 2 eggs and whisk together. Pour into dry cake mix and stir with a heavy duty utensil until all the dry ingredients are moist. It will be thick. Don't worry if there a few dry balls of cake mix. When they bake, the butter will hit them, and they will moisten.

Drop onto baking sheet lined with parchment paper by less than a teaspoon size ball. Leave about 1 inch space between the balls. They will spread out in baking process.

Bake for 13 minutes on the center rack of the oven. Do not bake on the lower rack. They will be puffy when removed from the oven but will drop in the cooling process. Let cool to touch. Cookies will be crunchy on outside with a gooey center. Makes at least 4 dozen.


Dark Chocolate Fudge - no modifications.

Red Velvet - add 1 Tbsp. butter flavoring OR almond extract. It makes for an interesting look and taste.

Pumpkin Spice - use a spice cake mix and add 1 Tbsp. pumpkin pie spice and 1 tsp. cinnamon

Lemon Poppy Seed - use lemon cake mix and add 1 Tbsp. lemon extract and 2 Tbsp. poppy seeds.

When adding ingredients, add dry ingredients to dry mix and wet ingredients to wet mix.

When adding wet ingredients you may have to add a minute or more to cook time.

Ah, Sweet Music

The long-awaited-highly-anticipated-easy-listening-album-of-the-year-that-you-didn’t-even-know-about is finally here! And no, I’m not talking about some well known artist making a greatest hits album, nor am I following an ‘up and coming’ musician that will start new waves in the music world. I’m talking about a personal music project I just completed to help the women of my church with their mission projects.

Back in the spring I was trying to think of ways I could do more for my church. I am so delighted with my new church family that I constantly want to give something back. With caring for my mother being a second full-time job, I don’t have the freedom to participate in church events, join small study groups or be part of the United Methodist Women. I am so astounded at what this small church is accomplishing, and every time I hear about a new mission the UMW is taking on, I am overwhelmed with the desire to help.

Well, I may be house-bound in the evenings and on weekends, but that doesn’t stop me from plucking around on a keyboard. So that’s what I decided to do. (Now you’re scratching your head and wondering where I am going with this.) I made several trips this summer to Fort Worth/Dallas for my visual issues. While there, I spent hours of fun in my son-in-law’s office plugged in to Mac’s Garage Band program. With Ryan’s help, I produced a little CD of easy listening piano music. I chose simple love ballads that were old favorites. I took children’s music from my years of teaching and dressed them up a little. I spared no expense on the production - I plied Ryan with his favorite foods at all his favorite restaurants. Oh, and I bought a sharpie marker from the dollar store! [Instead of printing a nice CD label, I scribbled my name on each one.] Yup, you guessed it, this was a cheap production. Ryan did the cover art and I did my own back cover. I dubbed several hundred copies and stacked them on a table at church. I made one for each household to take if they wanted one as my Christmas gift to them.

But, I told them there was a catch. Ah, yes, there’s that old “How’s that gonna help the UMW?” you might be asking. Well, if they LIKED the album and wanted to give one to a sister, a sweetheart, a mother, a secretary or the old grouch down the street who just needed to chill out - for a DONATION of $5.00 (per CD) I told them to take as many as they wanted and give the money to the UMW for their mission work. If they decided they DIDN’T like it – it was a free coaster! The first introduction at a UMW function netted over $100. We couldn’t believe it. I hope they fly out the door. What a gift to the UMW this would be if the project is successful.

A Little Bit Of Musical History
Back when I was singing with Wings of Eagles in the late 80’s and early 90’s we recorded two albums. Man, has technology really changed things. This piano album was a breeze compared to the old days of tape. Back then, if you made a mistake, it had to be redone in sections or as a whole. We didn’t have the ability to record each of the four voices and a piano and instruments on individual tracks. If one of us messed up, we all started over. I know we spent almost 15 hours on four songs in one day alone. Multiply that by the total on the album – you’ll get an idea of the exhaustion involved. But today, a single mistake can be corrected with the click of a mouse. I was like a kid in a candy store with the variety of sounds you can generate with the computer and a keyboard.

This was the first time in a very long time I have looked forward to something and felt a sense of accomplishment. It has put a new perspective on life that I thought I lost. I have allowed caring for my mother to dampen so much in my life, simply because I had to set aside so many activities that used my talents. When I first started caring for mother she would drop whatever she was doing to come into the room to listen to me play the piano or practice something I was scheduled to sing for church. Music meant so much to her before this recent stage of Alzheimer’s. Music was so important to mom she sacrificed so I could take piano lessons as a child. I remember her taking in ironing and sweating over the ironing board in a house without air conditioning – all because she loved music and the talent that was denied her manifested itself in me.

Now, she doesn’t even notice the music in the next room. It is just one more thing I thought we lost – until I took her to church one Sunday. I had actually chosen “Jesus Loves Me” for one of the hymns that day. All the other music brushed past her ears with no registration at all. We started the verse and her head turned toward me as I directed. When the chorus of “Yes, Jesus loves me” started, she began to mouth the words. A flicker of a smile lit her eyes each time we sang the chorus. I almost cried in front of everyone. It was the first time in a long while that showed music could still reach her.

Music is one of the most beautiful things of our world. Whether it helps provide a family with Christmas gifts and warm clothes through the UMW mission projects, or if it reaches out to tug at the heartstrings, rest assured that it will touch someone profoundly in ways you can never fathom. Of all the fancy arrangements I have played and sang, “Jesus Loves Me” will be the most poignant melody I will hold in my memory – for there was a fleeting glimpse of the mother I used to know in those few short moments in time.

Granny Speak

Granny Speak. It’s the term we use for mom’s language, which very few of us understand. As Alzheimer’s has progressed, mom’s ability to communicate has regressed. For the first few years, when she didn’t fully understand the conversation, she would respond to you with, “Whatever.” Now, there are very few words in her vocabulary. Her comprehension of most of what I say to her is extremely limited. There are a few, basic, phrases she understands.

“Mom, we’re going out to do that.” Means I am taking her to church, going to eat, or going to run errands. “I washed that up.” Means she did something. It does NOT mean she washed anything. If she puts a puzzle together, she washed it up. If she put her coat on, she washed it up. You get my drift.

So, with limited conversation, most dinners are quiet. The dining experience has become an exercise in keeping her hands away from something she shouldn’t have, keeping her from guzzling her tea, preventing her from bolting her food like a dog and keeping her from trying to dig in her teeth with a fork. Yeah, it’s no fun. It’s a lot like dining with a toddler.

With other people not knowing our situation, I find myself the object of stares and remarks. Let them look. Let them remark. They don’t know what’s going on. And I manage to let them know that they don’t know what is going on after they’ve made their remark. I found a nifty way to set folks right.

Case in point ~ The first time this happened, I was upset. Now I take endless delight in how I handle these situations. We were in a restaurant, and I did my usual routine of grabbing her napkin and removing the knife from the folds before I let her have the set. Then I moved the sugar and the other condiments out of her reach. I moved the table tent to the far corner. Her little hand snaked over to the container with the alternative sweeteners in it, and I told her No. She wanted her tea glass, and I told her No. She was not chewing her salad completely before stuffing the next bite in, and I told her No and took the dish away. As she finished each bite I let her have the dish back long enough to get a spoonful. This is now a habit. Let her have the dish. Drag it to my side of the table. Wait for her to finish that bite. Shove the dish back across the table. This goes on for the duration of the meal. You guessed it – I don’t eat a lot of hot food. While in this dining process, a lady sitting at the table to the right of my shoulder was observing us. After I fussed at mother for not chewing her food, mother protested that she ‘wanted that up there’ meaning she wanted the dish in front of her. Mother asked, “Why won’t you give me that up? I want that!” The lady observing the little tirade muttered loud enough to her companions, “That woman is being mean to that poor old lady.”

Needless to say, I fumed. Instead of turning to the lady to tell her I was dealing with the late stages of Alzheimer’s and that she should mind her own business, I decided to handle it another way. In the sweetest, syrupy voice I could muster, I said, “But mother, if I let you have this, your hair will turn green and you will start robbing banks again.” Not understanding a word I said, mother merely replied, “Well, okay. Whatever.” Nuff said.

On another occasion, I was out with my brother and his family for a dinner to celebrate a birthday. I pulled the van up to the restaurant door and told mother to get out and go with Steve into the restaurant. She didn’t understand what I was trying to get her to do. I got out of the car, walked around to her door, opened the door and indicated that she needed to get out. “Go with Steve, mom.” “No, no, no.” “Yes, get out of the car.” “No, no, no.” “You are going to go in with Steve while I park the car.” “Go with those people?” I had to raise my voice for her to pay attention to me. “Yes, mother, go.” “No, no, no.” Steve pleaded with her. His wife pleaded with her. Nothing was getting through to her. People on the sidewalk were watching the byplay. I finally raised my voice enough to get her attention and said, “Go with them.” and pointed at the family she no longer recognizes. “Get out? Why?” I shouted, “Because I’m selling you to pirates!” "Okay. Whatever."

One evening, mother was asking for another glass of tea. [I have learned that I need to limit the liquid intake, because there is a direct link to the liquid output. I carry a diaper bag with a change of clothes in it, but, if I can avoid the need to make those changes in a public restroom I will do everything possible to prevent it.] On this particular night mother was being very vocal about wanting more tea. I refused and steered her attention from the glass. She veered back to the glass saying, “Give me that up there. I want that.” Knowing the neighboring tables could hear us, I calmly said, “Mother, you will have to wait. I know you must be very thirsty after chasing all those cars today. And you almost caught that little blue Lotus, didn’t you?” Mother’s reply – “Yes.” I could hear one lady gasp in horror. I waited for Adult Protective Services to arrest me for letting my elderly person play in the traffic.

If you’re walking down the grocery isle and hear someone say, “Mother, if you’re good I’ll let you drive the M-1 Abrams tank to church” it’s just us.

Cowboys and Rodeo

Storm clouds were rolling in as I toodled along in Lil' Buddy at the whopping speed of 45 miles per hour. It was a perfect setting for the day with just enough cloud cover to make the drive comfortable. The threat of rain was not due until later in the day. I crossed my fingers the weather would behave long enough for the Valley Lodge Trail Riders to make it to their destination - a rest stop at my church, Addicks United Methodist Church on Highway 6 in Houston.

The Valley Lodge Trail Riders were mentioned in a magazine article I read a few weeks ago. It indicated they were a pretty venerable band of horse riders, wagons and buck-boards. I know one of the trail bosses and another of the riders as they are both members of my church. My job was to photograph the event for the web site I run for our district churches. So, with the camera ready, I 'saddled up' Lil' Buddy and headed for Addicks.

Upon arriving, I parked the car next to our ancient little church and waited. I was pretty excited because I have never witnessed anything like this up close and personal. It wasn't long before the police escort for the group arrived. Traffic at the intersection was blocked off. I could see the mounted police enter the street at the intersection down the road, next came the trail bosses, then the street was flooded with cowboys and cowgirls on horseback. It was amazing. They continued to merge onto the roadway as if the stream of riders and wagons had no end. They rolled into the parking lot and filled it. Once the parking area was full the rest had to park on the roadway. Two adorable, fuzzy black donkeys passed me and looked directly at the camera as if they were saying, "Hey, take our picture."

Addicks UMC was merely a brief resting place on the trail before they moved on to the park where they would set up camp in preparation for the rodeo. A rope had been strung between two utility poles flanking the parking lot. One by one horses were clipped to this line until it was loaded with horses resting side by side. People came from miles around to pet the horses, donkeys and mules. A little girl in a stroller was awe struck as a clutch of riders gathered around her to say hello. Two young mothers brought their toddlers to see the animals. The babies' eyes were wide with wonder as they touched the soft muzzles of these gentle giants. Little ones of all ages were dressed in western gear as if they were miniature gun slingers and rodeo kings and queens. One trail boss was gracious enough to put a couple of toddlers up in the saddle of his massive steed for a photo op.

People of all walks in life were represented in the Valley Lodge Trail Riders. Bankers, doctors and lawyers blended in seamlessly with true cowboys and farm folk. Their stock uniforms of denim and western style shirts, boots and hats made it impossible to tell who did what in their daily life. It was as if an army descended upon us, orchestrated to the minute with details that made this move along like a well oiled machine. They were in and out in twenty minutes. When break time was over, whistles called out to the ranks to mount up. The girls carrying the flag banners of the Valley Lodge Riders pulled out front and center. Off they went, headed for the rodeo.

In case you are not familiar with Houston, the Livestock Show and Rodeo takes over the whole city for more than a month. Schools even take children on field trips to attend it. The primary purpose of the rodeo is to net money for education, and a section of the complex is set up for children to learn about livestock of all types. You can witness baby chickens hatch and calves are born before your very eyes. There is a petting zoo, and you can walk among the cattle, sheep and goats being shown for prizes. The rodeo is also known for its food and festivities. In another arena you can watch riders qualify for the barrel racing competition, roping events and a host of cowboy related activities.

You'd have to be living under a rock in the desert not to know Rodeo is in town. The excitement of the rodeo is contagious. (Rodeo fever turns visitors from Cincinnati into Texans. However, you can tell by their accent they 'ain't' one of us.) I find myself gravitating to it every year. I haven't been on a horse in ages, and I certainly don't live on a ranch. In fact, the day I attend rodeo is the one day out of the year I purposely put on a pair of blue jeans. And no, I don't own a pair of western boots. Yup, you guessed it...my boots have high heels and buttons up the side like a pair of Victorian strolling boots.

Texans are a particularly different breed of people and our love of "all things Texan" is infectious. We spread it to each other, slather it over visitors and wear anything shaped like our state as a badge of honor. You can go into any souvenir shop with a display of solid black refrigerator magnets in the shape of Texas, no print, no color, no nothing, and not even someone from France will ask, "Is that Michigan or Colorado?" It's Texas - the world just knows!

We are such a conceited lot. We know we are the biggest of the central forty-eight states. We know you can travel our state border and see countryside that rivals any other state. We are spoiled to our massive highway system. Where people in other states think driving for a few hours is a major trip to another state, we do it to drive across town or to a nearby city to eat dinner. Dessert is another half hour away. We are also very conscious of the fact that we were once a stand-alone sovereign nation before a handful of no-goodnicks decided to join the United States. Hence the reason the Texas flag is allowed to fly at the same staff height as the United States flag. Let me tell you, joining the states was a big fight. Read the history books. We were also the last to give in over the Civil War. Our classic response to the phrase "the South lost the Civil War" is "WE DID?" We're a scrappy bunch, and we are proud of it. Stubborn, but friendly. Cocky, yet willing to stop on the side of the road and help strangers.

So, once a year I put on my Texas twang and head for the rodeo. Oops, correction. That Texas twang in my voice is there every day. About ten years ago I was on a subway in New York City and an elderly lady leaned forward, tapped my knee and asked if I was from Texas. I answered with the question, "Weeellll, how on er-uth could you tay-ell?" Say it a couple o' times ree-ul fast an' you'll 'git' the picture.

While the rodeo was a blast, I had more fun mingling with the cowboys and cowgirls of the Valley Lodge Trail Riders on the grounds of Addicks United Methodist Church. For a few minutes it was as if time stood still, and I was transported to another era.

Dear Santa, May I have a cowboy for Christmas? I promise I'll be good. Wait, let me think on that. The being good part, I mean. After all, a cowboy is involved.

Leave Your Dignity At The Table

I am going to have to ask my male readers to look the other way on this one. It is a saga only the ladies will understand.

It was Christmas season 2010. Mother was officially diagnosed with Alzheimer's in the fall of 2007, but we had seen indications of the disease as early as the spring of 2005. While the progression seemed slow at first, there was an rapid advancement during 2009 and early 2010. By the fall of 2010 mother could not be left alone to do anything at all. This includes the most basic of needs in the restroom.

While I have been very lucky in that she has maintained her sweet and gentle nature, mother's communication and skill levels are that of a three year old. If you have a bigger glass of tea, she will say, "You have all that up there." meaning I have more than she does and she resents it. It does no good to explain to her why she has a smaller glass. She is not be able to understand that I have to limit her tea intake because she will drink two glasses to fill her stomach and not eat all her food, or she would need to make a trip to the restroom mid-meal. This is never fun when you are dining out. And dining out alone with her is completely off the list of possible activities. Now that I pack a bag of adult supplies with a change of clothes for mother, carry my own purse, have her purse and cane and an extra coat (at all times) to oversee, one needs a spare human to leave behind at the table to monitor all the stuff. Otherwise it looks like we set up camp at a table and abandoned the site if we make a trip to the ladies' room. A smoldering campfire is the only thing I don't bring with us.

There are other reasons it is good to dine with someone else. They can report back to you all the funny things mother is doing while you are not looking directly at her. One such occasion was my brother's birthday dinner. He and his whole family joined me at church on Sunday evening, December 19. We had a service of lessons and carols at the little church I attend and his family filled two pews. We ended the evening with dinner at a nice steakhouse.

We prepared to enjoy a wonderful meal. However, it didn't take long for my brother's grown daughters to start laughing. As I would stop mother from grabbing items she wasn't supposed to have, put her small glass of tea in front of her and remove knives from her napkin set, they began to giggle. It seems that every time I did something that prevented mother from getting into something she found interesting, she would glare at me and roll her eyes the minute my head would turn. She would make little faces with her mouth to indicate she felt thwarted, which the girls couldn't resist laughing at. I would say, "What is so funny?" With mother not understanding most of the conversation around her they were able to tell me everything. When mother asked me why I was taking something from her, my reply was, "Because it will make your hair turn green and you'll start robbing banks again." and she would be satisfied with the answer. Then roll her eyes and glare at me the minute my head turned. We entertained the whole table.

Dinner rocked along smoothly enough until mother started fidgeting. I inquired what was wrong and she indicated she needed to go to the restroom. I sighed. You will soon find that, in regard to the public restroom scenario, I have come to set my self-esteem aside and leave it crumpled with my napkin on my chair. And I have learned that the only opportunity I have of taking my turn in the ladies' room is when I take her. Otherwise, it is a complicated dance of the trip with her, washing her hands, walking her back to the table to leave some other poor soul the task of chaperoning mother while I return to the restroom. All that trafficking back and forth causes a lot of attention. And, ladies, we all know this is something we just don't like. If there was a black whole we could step into where no one could see us opening the door to the ladies' room it would be infinitely better than having that sweet guy from the bar standing there ready to open the door to the restroom hallway, sweepingly bowing with a grand gesture as if to say, "Go right on in and make those noises of a cow peeing on a flat rock. We don't have a clue why you are going in there."

I have realized that I must, for the sake of my own sanity, make the most of a lousy situation. With mother donning two coats and walking with a cane, I have timed this out to create the minimum of fuss. The routine is to take her into the handicap stall, get her gloves off her hands and into the coat pockets, take the overcoat off and hang it up on the hook. Once she is finished with business, cleaned and flushed I set her aside to put the overcoat on and take my turn. Since she usually takes the time to zip the under coat, button every single button on the overcoat and tie the waist band belt, I am usually able to relieve myself and only have to admonish her not to touch the door knob until I open the door for her.

Well, needless to say, I wouldn't be writing this if all had gone perfectly as planned. There I sat with my Christmas dress held up away from the toilet clamped to my side with my left arm, my panties are at my knees, and I am trying to pry the toilet paper out of the holder with my right hand while still attempting to hold that side of the dress in mid air. Mother has dutifully put on her coat. She appeared to be meddling with buttons. I was saying my usual mantra of, "Mom, don't go near the door until I am ready." "Okay." she replied. "Mom, finish putting your coat on." "Okay." "Mom, wait for me." "Okay." Next thing I know her little hand zipped out and flipped the latch. "Mom," I shouted, "don't open the door." She was proceeding forward as if she hadn't heard a word I said.

Ladies, we all know that there is always a line for the women's restroom. Typically, you will have women three deep waiting for a stall. I have no idea why architects design things the way they do. They put an equal number of stalls in the men's room, plus there are urinals on the wall. Why they don't take two of those stalls and make the ladies' room larger I have no idea. Oh, wait, yes I do. Men are impatient. Men don't have half the clothing we women have. And no man is going to have to share his stall with his elderly mother. They have NO CLUE.

So there I was - sitting on the handicap toilet (which is taller than normal toilets) with my panties at my knees, my feet swinging in mid air like a child's, my left arm clutching my Christmas dress against my ribs and my right hand filled with toilet paper. What was I to do? My only thought was to put the clean toilet paper under my arm pit so I wouldn't drop it on the floor, reach out and grab mother by the coat and drag her back toward me. I clutched the back of her coat, fussing at her the whole time. The door continued to swing open. As par for my luck, this was the one time she did not button every button and tie the waist belt. The coat slid straight off her body as she walked forward. I pitied the ladies standing on the other side of the door waiting for an empty stall. Mother continued to walk out as I pleaded with her not to go out the door. The coat dropped onto the floor in a deflated heap, and I was facing strangers without a thread of dignity left to my soul. I could only look into their embarrassed eyes and asked in a pathetic voice, "Don't let her escape." "Oh, and could you push the door shut, please?"

Nothing spells togetherness like Alzheimer's and the handicap stall of a public restroom.

Okay, Thank You

Fall 2009
It happened one dark and stormy night. I can actually open with that line. I needed a break for a weekend get-away and took some time off to go to Fort Worth to visit my daughter. My sister and I had agreed that mother did not need to be alone for a whole weekend. At this stage in mother's battle with Alzheimer's we weren't quite to the point of needing a sitter all day and care all evening, but a weekend was cause for concern. In my absence during this particular weekend, my niece Rebecca was the one who drew the short straw of who would spend the weekend with Granny.

I precooked mother's meals. I had everything ready for Rebecca to stay. I told Rebecca I would leave the garage door opener by the front door behind the safety gate. All she had to do was let herself in. I tried to explain to mother that I was going to be gone and Rebecca was coming to stay. I got that blank look that said, "You speaking dah Greek again" but the words that came out of her mouth were "Okay. Whatever."

I packed the car, left the garage door opener in its spot and drove away. With the promise of a wonderful weekend with my daughter and her husband, I did not have a care on my mind. Until I got the call from my sister.

Alicia "Did you forget to leave the garage door opener for Becca?"
Cheryl "No. I put it behind the safety gate by the front door."
A "Well, it's not there."
C "Surely someone didn't pick it up."
A "It's storming here and Becca is locked out. She has been ringing the doorbell, but Granny isn't answering."
C "Did you call the house and see if mom answers?"
A "Let me try that. Tricia and I are driving over there now."

By this time Rebecca was drenched and huddling on my front porch in the dark. Alicia called the house and mother answered the phone. Here is the conversation from Bizzaro world.

Mother "Hello?"
Alicia "Mother. Open the door."
M "The door? I just did that."
A "Open the front door. We're trying to get in."
M "The door? I just did that to let those dogs out. It was doing that stuff up out there and the dogs didn't want it that."
A "Not the dogs mom. Open the front door. Rebecca is trying to come in. She's ringing the door bell."
M "Do what?"
A "Open the door. Can't you hear us banging on the door?"
M "I did that already."
A "No, mom. We're trying to come in."
M "Oh, you're coming over? That's nice. Thank you." And she hung up.

Alicia called again. "Mom. We're here. Let us in."
M "Okay. Thank you."
A "Mom. Open the door."

I don't know how long this went on. Eventually mother must have noticed the dogs going crazy at the front door and opened it to investigate. As the light from the open door spilled into the darkness to reveal the bedraggled and frustrated trio, mother beamed "Oh. You're here. So nice."

Alicia questioned mother as to the whereabouts of the garage door opener. "Mom, did you pick up something by the front door?"
Mother, "Do what?"
A "Did you pick up something by the door? Outside? A little black box?" She finally opened the door and pointed to the place the truant mechanism should have been. Mother perked up and said, "Oh, yes. Someone put this little thing down there." and the item surfaced.

On the first day of good weather after that my sister pulled her Honda into my driveway and programmed her garage door opener to match my garage system.

The moral of the story is: Don't go thinking you've covered all your bases. Something's going to go wrong, and you will be standing in the rain wondering what on earth you did to deserve it. This time - It Wasn't Me!!!!