BIRTHDAY TEA FOR THREE

Sipping my almond raspberry tea and nibbling on coconut scones with clotted cream, it was easy to imagine I was in a small village in southern England, where I first experienced real Devonshire cream. It's hard to believe this lovely tea room is hidden away in an unimpressive strip mall of Virginia Beach!

It's not everyday you have an occasion to celebrate a 99th birthday. Our wonderful neighbor of more than twenty years, Elva Gerlach, turned 99 last week. She's been an adopted grandmother to me and my three brothers over the years, and we feel like she's part of the family. She's also been a special friend to my Grandma Jeter since she came to live with my parents. Elva is the only one of Grandma's friends around here who is anywhere close to her age, and the only one who can get away with calling her "Gertrude."

Today is also my mom's birthday, and so we decided to go out for a double birthday celebration. Since Grandma is still recovering from her hip surgery and it's very difficult to get in and out of a car, we asked a friend to come over and stay with her while my mom and Elva and I went out for an afternoon tea.

I never would have stumbled across The English Rose Tea Room if my mom hadn't seen it advertised in the paper. It's easy to miss, even if you're looking for it, tucked in next to a dental clinic and across from a dollar store. But once we stepped inside, it was easy to forget the somewhat drab outer appearance. Soothing instrumental music and cool pastel colors invited us to slow down and relax. A smiling hostess, bustling about clearing teacups and saucers, greeted us and led us to a quiet spot by the window.


Each of us had our own pot of tea. My mom chose the "Pucker Up Lemon" (or something to that effect), and Elva decided upon Orange Tangerine. The "Lite Lunch" had several options to choose from - soup, salad, 1/2 sandwich, fruit, pasta salad, and scones. The salad had fresh greens, mandarin oranges and feta cheese, with a light dressing that tasted like it might have been lemon poppyseed. There were coconut scones and cranberry/raisin scones, which were light and sweet. And the tea was wonderful, made to be enjoyed in small sips out of the delicate turquoise and gold or rose-patterned teacups.

The English Rose Tea Room is a lovely oasis from the frantic activity of everyday life, and I hope to return again soon!

Care For Some Tea?
English Rose Tea Room
Kempsville Plaza Shopping Center
404 S. Parliament Drive 103
Virginia Beach, VA 23462

www.theenglishrose.org
757-456-2777
englishrosetea@gmail.com

(Open Tue - Sat, 11am - 4pm)

A DAY IN THE PARK WITH ABUELA

We went for a walk today with Abuela (my grandmother). It was a gorgeous day today - I heard reports that it was 81 degrees! The sun was shining, there was a warm breeze blowing, and it certainly didn't feel like February weather. So we decided to get out of the house. My aunt and I got Abuela ready - sunglasses, hair fixed, tissues on hand - and then we took turns pushing her wheelchair the few blocks from our house to the park by the lake. We'd brought along stale bread for the ducks, if we saw any.

We finally found some ducks on the second wooden bridge along the path that cuts through the middle of the park. There were about six of them, lingering in the cool shade of some overhanging branches along the water's edge. But they came swimming right up when they saw us approaching. These ducks know that people often mean food.

Abuela was quite entertained by the ducks. I positioned her wheelchair at an angle close to the railing, so she could toss in small pieces of bread that I tore off for her. Splashing and diving, the ducks competed for the crumbs, to our great amusement.

My mom arrived after a few minutes. She had picked up our almost-99-year-old neighbor Elva, who's my grandma's buddy, and driven her to the park. Elva can walk with a cane quite well, but gets winded after a bit and has to rest on a park bench for a few minutes. When my grandma saw Elva, her eyes lit up. "Well, hello there!" she smiled, as Elva bent over to kiss grandma on the cheek. Then Elva asked if she could push grandma's wheelchair. "It helps me to have something to push," she explained, "like a shopping cart. It keeps me steady."

What a sweet sight that was, our 99-year-old neighbor pushing my 100-year-old grandmother down the path in the park, heading back home.

HURRY UP AND WAIT

Don't hate me for this. I apologize in advance to any die-hard fans who may be offended. But I have to say that though it's heralded as our "national past-time" in the U.S., baseball is not my favorite sport. To be honest, I find it extremely boring. Now I confess that I'm not an athlete by any stretch of the imagination, and I'm not that interested in sports in general, but if I have to choose to watch or play any major sport, baseball would NOT be my first choice.

I've been to only a few live games over the years (of our local minor team), and I did get caught up in the excitement of standing up and doing "the wave" with the other fans in the stands, or singing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" at the top of our lungs. But the actual game down on the field seemed almost to be an after-thought. I never paid much attention to it.

I much prefer to watch soccer or basketball or rugby (which I don't understand at all, but which looks greatly exciting). I like sports that have a lot of action - running up and down the field, passing the ball, making goals. My younger brothers played on soccer teams when they were in middle school and high school, and I went to every game that I could. I was their biggest fan. I didn't understand all the rules of off-sides and why someone got a penalty kick, but I could get the concept of kicking the ball towards the goal. There was alwys lots of excitement.

Much of baseball, though, involves standing around and WAITING. I didn't mind that when I played softball in high school (not because I wanted to, but because I was homeschooled and needed a P.E. credit). I would have been quite happy to stay on the bench all season, but our coaches let everyone play a little bit each game. But if I HAD to play, I was thankful to be sent way out to right field, where I would stare at the clouds and pick dandelions and pray that no balls came my way. On those rare occasions when a left-handed batter came up to the plate, before the ball was even thrown I would yell to my teammates as I started to run away, "I don't got it! Cover for me!"

When I DID actually attempt to catch the rare ball that came my way, I would invariably either close my eyes at the last minute or duck my head, sure that the ball was going to knock my eyes out or break my nose. I seem to remember one fly ball that missed my glove and hit me in the face, but my siblings claim I'm making that up. Maybe I just imagined it happening so many times that I thought it really did happen. But I can't say for sure.

But besides my traumatic experiences in high school softball, I think the main reason I don't like baseball is just because of the slow pace. It's small bursts of activity followed by long stretches of nothing much happening. Hurry up and wait.

Today I was thinking of the similarities between baseball and caregiving for the elderly. Each day is filled with short flurries of activity, followed by long stretches of not a lot of excitement. Every day we help Grandma get out of bed - these days it takes at least two people and the "Hoyer Lift" - a sling we slide under her that attaches to an arm that gets cranked up to lift her out of bed and onto the toilet chair, then from the toilet to the wheelchair. And sometimes there are several people running around, bringing the toilet chair up, taking it back out, emptying the pot, bringing up the wheelchair, attaching the legs, adjusting the arms, putting in the back pillow, getting a blanket, giving her a drink, changing the sheets, getting her dressed, giving her medicine, fixing her hair, preparing her cereal, washing dirty pajamas, taking out the trash... And that's just before breakfast!

But then once she's sitting at the table with her bite-sized Shredded Wheat and sliced banana and orange juice and the weather page of the newspaper, we know that breakfast will take a looong time - sometimes two hours! But in this case there's not a lot of idle standing around waiting for breakfast to be done so we can do the next thing. Once Grandma's settled, we can all focus on the rest of our daily activities.

Every once in awhile, though, I think that sitting and waiting is not a bad thing. Sometimes if I have time, I try to sit with Grandma while she's eating and read my Bible, maybe reading bits of the passage aloud to her as she chews her cereal. And sometimes I point out the cardinals and chickadees and finches and woodpeckers that come to our birdfeeders just outside the back windows, positioned where Grandma can see them while she's eating. And sometimes I do a 100-piece puzzle of flowers and kittens with her in the afternoon after her nap, though it takes five times as long as it would if I were doing it myself. And I try to ask her questions about her girlhood on the farm in Kansas, or raising four boys and a girl in Cuba and Spain and Morocco, helping her when she gets stuck on a word mid-sentence and filling in the gaps when she can't seem to remember and trying not to make her feel self-conscious about it. And I let her take her time to fold the t-shirt or towel, though it takes twenty minutes, because it gives her a feeling of being useful and needed. There is value in waiting.

Next time I have the opportunity to watch a baseball game, I may look at it differently. It may be that the batter doing practice swings with his bat, or the pitcher winding up for the pitch are just as important as the soaring home runs over the fence and the frantic dash around the bases. Who knew that my grandmother could teach me something about baseball? I think I'll tell her about it. But first I have to wait for her to get up from her nap.

DOING DISHES WITH ABUELA

Abuela had that look after dinner. In the weeks following the surgery for her broken hip, my one-hundred-year-old grandmother has become increasingly bored and restless. Though her injury confines her to a wheelchair, Abuela still wants to be useful and help around the house. And in the three years she's lived with my family, the dishes have consistently been her "job."

Maneuvering the wheelchair into position was tricky. But with me standing at the sink and Abuela's chair angled between the sink and the dishwasher, we came up with a partnership system that worked pretty well. I rinsed the dishes and silverware, then handed each item to Abuela so that she could find a place for it on the racks of the machine. It took some time, but we eventually filled the dishwasher and started the cycle. Then I tackled some of the bigger items - pans and serving bowls, or the rubber spatulas and wooden spoons that we usually wash by hand. Abuela meticulously dried each dish, a towel on her lap to catch the drips. Then as I put away the dried dishes and wiped down the sink and countertops, Abuela carefully hung her dishtowels over the edge of the sink to dry, her practiced fingers smoothing out every bump and wrinkle.

Even though multiple strokes and dementia have eaten away at my sweet grandmother's short-term memory, there are some things she will never forget. Washing dishes must be one of those things, like riding a bicycle or tying your shoes. Gertrude Elizabeth Dudte, my grandmother, was raised on a farm in Newton, Kansas. Washing dishes was something she probably did from the time she could stand on a chair or a stool and help her mother and sisters in the kitchen. She's been washing dishes for about ninety years!

Recently our family doctor asked Abuela, "So, are you still doing the dishes and folding the laundry?" Abuela seemed surprised at the question. "Of course," she answered, as if he had been asked her if she's still eating three meals a day. "It's my job."

SLEEPING THROUGH THE NIGHT

I've heard mothers of new babies talk about checking to see if their baby is still breathing in the middle of the night if it's too quiet. You tiptoe over to the crib, lean over, and peer in the darkness to see if the tiny chest is still rising and falling. You strain your ears for the barely audible whisper of the breathing in and out. Then you release a sigh of relief and crawl back into bed, amazed at the miracle of this tiny life, sleeping there so soundly, unaware of all the emotions he is stirring in the adults in his world.

Last night, lying on the cot in my 100-yr-old grandmother's room at night, at first I was keenly aware of every sound she made in the bed just a few feet away. I was taking a turn to do night duty, making sure that Grandma didn't get up on her own during the night with her recently-operated-on hip and fall. My mom usually has the task of night watch. So I wasn't accustomed to all the groans and creaks of the mattress springs, the whiffling snoring, or the rustling of the sheets as she moved in bed. Every once in awhile I would stiffen, my senses on high alert at a new sound, trying to perceive whether I needed to get up and investigate. A couple of times she seemed to stop breathing for a couple of seconds, and I would hold my breath anxiously until I heard the steady rhythm start up again.

But an amazing thing happened last night. A miracle actually. Grandma never got up during the night. Not even once. Often Mom and Dad will be up with her 3, 4 or 5 times a night, helping her out of bed and onto the toilet and back again. Usually it seems it's just restlessness, discomfort, or agitation that makes her want to get up, rather than an actual need. But the doctor has prescribed a new medication that is working wonders. It seems to help her relax and feel more comfortable. And for the first time in the weeks since she fell and broke her hip, Grandma is actually sleeping through the night!

Yet somehow the lack of activity last night made me a bit more uneasy. It was too quiet. Something wasn't right. I lay there in the dark, listening for noises, wondering if everything was OK. Did I just not hear her? Is she trying to get up? I couldn't really see in the darkness of the room, and a couple of times I imagined that I could see her shadowy figure starting to sit up in bed. Once or twice I used the glow of my cell phone to sweep across the bed and ensure that all was indeed well.

And, miraculously, all was indeed well. She was still breathing. She was sleeping peacefully. And finally I was able to relax enough to sleep too.

A friend recently told me of the celebration she and her husband had when their baby slept through the night for the first time. It seemed strange, surreal to not be waking up every few hours to feed a crying baby. And the first few nights the parents couldn't really sleep. They kept listening for that cry to rouse them out of bed. But eventually they started getting used to the silence. What a wonderful thing. I think I could get used to it too.

PUT ON A HAPPY FACE

Maybe I need to stop being so positive.

When we were growing up, my brothers used to tease me about my "just smile and be happy" outlook on life. "Why can't we all just hug and be friends?" they would chime, in an over-the-top sugary voice with a plastered grin. Then they would try to convince me that I was unrealistic and that life wasn't that simple.

In those days I was obsessed with big yellow smiley faces, the kind they have on Wal-mart's "Low prices everyday" signs over bins of pencils and cans of green beans and other things that I didn't know I needed until I see that they're ONLY $1.99 each! Those yellow smileys became my trademark in my early twenties. I had a smiley keychain, a foam smiley-face ball on the top of my car's antennae, and huge round sun shades with yellow smileys to keep my dashboard cool in the summer.

Now that I think about it, I don't think I chose any of those smiley items for myself. Friends started getting them for me, and then somehow it became known that Michelle liked yellow smiley faces. Maybe it's because I always put little smiley faces at the end of emails or letters. Or maybe it's just because I smile a lot! I remember once in an English Composition class at the community college, a concerned classmate asked me when I walked in, "What's wrong, Michelle?" Taken aback, I said I was fine. "But you're not smiling," he persisted. "And you're ALWAYS smiling. So something must be wrong!"

I think I'm naturally a "glass-half-full" optimist. But I wonder how much of my always having a cheerful expression is a learned behavior. As the oldest child, as the daughter and grand-daughter of missionaries, I've often felt pressure (real or imagined) to keep up a certain image, to look like I have it all together.

Over the last three years I've been involved in the long-term 24-hour care of my centenarian grandmother - through the ups and downs of strokes, emergency room visits, hospitalization, home health care, physical therapy, and middle-of-the-night assistance for bathroom use. "I could never do what you guys do," countless people have told me and my family, shaking their heads. "You have such a gift for this." Or they say, "Well, God must know you can take it, 'cause He won't give you more than you can handle!"

That's when I start thinking that maybe I'm a little bit too cheerful and optimistic. And I wonder if I'm unintentionally giving the impression that I have it all together when I don't. Maybe I shouldn't always smile and say "We're fine" when people ask how things are going with grandma.

Because often I feel like I'm not handling it all very well. I get stressed. I get irritable. I get grumpy. And the truth is, I don't think I have a particular gifting for caregiving. (I don't remember that being one of the spiritual gifts listed in my Bible). My DNA isn't unique among the human race, allowing me supernatural strength and grace and patience for the particular challenges of caregiving. Neither is the rest of my family specially trained and perfectly suited for this particular season of life. We just do it because that's where we are right now. And you would do the same if you were in our shoes. Just like you take a deep breath, square your shoulders, and face the particular challenges of your life every day.

But I guess that doesn't mean I should stop smiling. I'm trying to learn when and where it's appropriate to humble myself and admit when I'm not doing very well and need help. It's true that God does give us the grace we need for each moment. That's the difference between happiness, which is based on circumstances, and JOY, which comes from the security of trusting in God's sustaining power. So though I don't have to feel pressure to "put on a happy face" just to keep up appearances, I know that in THIS moment, and in the NEXT moment, and in the NEXT moment, He will give me the joy of the Lord if I ask for it, which is my strength. And THAT's reason to smile!

EATING CRACKERS WITH A SPOON

“You can use your fingers to pick that up, Abuela.” I tried to intercept my 100-year-old grandmother's attempt to scoop up a Ritz cracker with tuna onto her spoon.

“It's OK to use your fingers to eat it. The spoon won't work very well.” Seeming not to hear me, my Abuela (grandmother in Spanish) continued to slide the cracker around the plate on the tip of her spoon, intent on her task. Finally I had to gently remove the spoon from her hand and place the cracker between her thumb and forefinger. “It's much easier this way! You can just eat it with your fingers.”

She looked at me a bit blankly, smiling weakly. But she quietly ate the cracker and tuna. Yet not more than twenty seconds later, she was once again chasing another cracker around the plate with her spoon.

Sighing, I tried to keep my voice cheerful. “You can just pick that up with your fingers, Abuela. It's much easier to eat it with your fingers.” This process was repeated at least six times – once for every cracker on her plate.

After about cracker number four, I was ready to confiscate the spoon AND the crackers. This was going to be a long meal.

Multiple strokes over the last few years and creeping dementia cause Abuela to revert to child-like behavior at times. When I'm getting frustrated with having to remind her something for the umpteenth time, I think about all she's lived through in the last century. Raising five children in Cuba, Spain and Morocco. Serving in missions with her husband on three continents. A faithful wife for over 60 years until my grandpa went to be with Jesus in 2004. A grandmother of seventeen, and a great-grandmother of eighteen.

How many nights has Abuela rocked her children and grandchildren to sleep on her lap? How many lives has she touched with her organ and accordion music in church services, or with her services as a capable secretary and accountant, or by her gentle smiles and encouraging words, or with her biscuits and roast beef and rhubarb pies cooked with love? My grandmother is a remarkable woman, and it's a privilege to care for her in the sunset years of her life. And if she wants to use her spoon to try to pick up her Ritz crackers, why shouldn't she? At 100 years old, she's earned the right to eat her crackers and tuna however she wants to!

Dictionary of "Grandma-isms"

My Italian grandmother, Rosina Ianelli Currie, had such a positive outlook on life. Anything was possible. Anything was fixable. And every ailment or problem or trial in life could be managed with the help of a heaping plate of lasagna and her famous "meatless meatballs." Even though Grandma Currie's in heaven now, I can still see the twinkle in her eye and hear her infectious laugh when I remember some of her favorite sayings.

- "The cat's pajamas" (Her name for any dish that was made with whatever you could find in the fridge)

- "A hop, skip, and a jump" (Something that's not very far away)

- "You gotta use your coconut!" (You have to use your brain)

- "You gotta be smarter than the average bear"

- "That's because of the good Italian blood in you!" (When any of her grandkids did something noteworthy)

- "It's not your fault. You can't help it that you're not Italian." (With a sigh and a shake of her head to my dad, who, though not born Italian, at least was vindicated by marrying an Italian!)

- "Did you know I'm FBI? Full Blooded Italian!" (With a secretive air to wide-eyed kids in her church. She would often wear a pin that said the same thing)

- "Two things improve with age. Wine and Italians!" (A magnet on her refrigerator that she loved pointing out to guests.)

- "Now, we gotta use our coconuts and out-smart these squirrels!" (To her grandkids as we plotted ways to keep the squirrels from eating her birdseed)

- "I've got a brain-wave!" (When she came up with another brilliant idea.)