Aunt Nellie Rose, I'll miss you

Early morning phone calls seldom bring good news.
In about a week's time, I've gotten two before 7 a.m. Monday's came as I was getting ready for work.
My cousin Nancy was calling. Our Aunt Nellie Rose Lassiter was very sick, and her daughter, Cathy, wanted us to know.
Aunt Nellie Rose has been very sick before, many more times than anyone should have to endure. But she was a fighter. The smallest, but toughest, fighter in the family. I gave my children the news, and Anna grew teary eyed, recalling a missed chance to see her great aunt just the week before.
Aunt Nellie Rose was on my mind as I drove to work and while I sat at my desk. I kept thinking back to my favorite memories of her. When the cousins were all young, elementary school-age, we'd gather at Granddaddy's Rock Ridge farm on the weekends. I loved playing with my rough and tumble Lassiter cousins, although it came with a little danger. Those three girls could get in all sorts of trouble, and Aunt Nellie Rose could sense it. I was a little scared of her, especially when she started calling out her girls' full names. I swear, 40 years later I can close my eyes and take myself back to the dirt driveway or the area around the two-seater outhouse, where the mischief usually occurred. Shivers still run down my neck and across my arms when I recall her shrill cry: "Debbie Jo!" "Cathy Rose!" "Betsy Jean!" I don't know what she did to them when she caught them because I'd run the other way before she called "Lisa Helen!"
Those thoughts were fresh in my mind when Cathy called just before 9 Monday morning; I wasn't expecting to hear that my beloved aunt was gone. She always bounced back, but not this time. After collecting myself and making a few calls I stopped to gather my thoughts and to remember a much happier time.
Several years ago, Daddy had to have several heart procedures at Wake Med. Aunt Nellie Rose lived in Raleigh, so she called and volunteered to sit with me during one of them. I declined, saying I'd rather spend the time alone. I didn't want to make small talk; sometimes it's just too much effort to make small talk. She came anyway. At first, I was a little annoyed, but within a few minutes, I was so happy to have the company. It was the only time the two of us have ever spent time alone. When you're part of a big family, there's seldom time for one-on-one visits. We did make small talk at first, but then she started talking about my Daddy, who's 15 years her senior. Aunt Nellie Rose knew stories about my daddy that no one had ever shared. She gave me an insight to his life just before he was shipped overseas during World War II and the wife and child he came home to several years later. She didn't hesitate to share stories about his first marriage — stories that others had probably thought taboo to tell. She waited around with me to see her big brother after the procedure was over. She sort of filled in for my mother, who has Alzheimer's and was not up to sitting with me all day at the hospital. I was very grateful for the fill-in mom, which is how I view all of my aunts.
We haven't seen the Lassiters much in recent years. Each family has had its own sicknesses to contend with. But Cathy brought Aunt Nellie Rose and Uncle Jimmy to see Daddy and Mama when she could. This spring, they came to Wilson soon after Daddy's rapid mental decline began. I wasn't sure if he'd even know them. During the visit, I looked for clues to see if Daddy really understood this was his sister sitting in the wheelchair in front of him. I wasn't convinced he knew, until it came time for her to leave. Aunt Nellie Rose scooted over to where Daddy was sitting, reached out and held his hands and told him goodbye. He looked her straight in the eyes and said, "I've loved you since the day you were born." My heart skipped a beat. It was one of those moments when time stops; I'll never forget it.
When the Lassiters came back just over a week ago, more than six months had passed. Daddy has grown increasingly worse both physically and mentally. The morning they were supposed to come, I called Aunt Nellie Rose. I wanted to prepare her for what she would see. Daddy was hallucinating that day, a side effect from an antibiotic to treat recurring pneumonia, and it's not pretty to see. She said they wouldn't come if I didn't want them to. "No, no," I told her. "I want you to come; it's important that you come."
So all of the siblings gathered at my parents' house a week ago Saturday. I think we all sensed it would be the last time they'd all be together, but it was my daddy who was the sickest, and the one everyone assumed would be next to go. We talked, laughed and told stories. It was almost like old times. Someone suggested we take a photo of all of them, but we didn't because Daddy looked so sick. It's not how we wanted to remember him.
Whenever the siblings gathered, we always took photos. We have photos from birthday parties, Christmas parties and anniversaries. But my favorites are from the pig-pickings we had when the cousins were teenagers.
The whole crowd would gather at Granddaddy's farm for one weekend in October. It was a homecoming for the siblings who had lived there and the grandchildren who had played in the fields. I find it very fitting that Aunt Nellie Rose died in October, the month for homecomings.

Golden evening

My family and I have been savoring these glorious days of early autumn, especially relishing in the coolness of early evening when we can take a walk without getting too hot or too cold.
On many evenings, my husband and I sit under our carport, watching as the foxes and a stray cat or two come up to scour our back lawn for the birds' bread crumbs or food our cat, Sammy, has left unfinished. Or we sit on the front yard bench and watch the neighborhood walkers pass by with their dogs or children.
Last night, I walked the short block down the street to my parents' house and visited with Mama on the front porch. Sammy walked with me, as he often does, but stopped before he got too far, distracted by a rival neighborhood cat.
The porch was quiet. We both commented on the mandevilla, still blooming across the front porch rail. I asked her if she was cool; she said "a little," but she liked the way it felt. I did, too. She noticed the intense red and orange glow as the sun started to set, and she even heard the call of birds as they settled in for the night. "Listen," she told me as she tilted her head towards the birdsong and smiled.
Earlier that day and even the day before, I had wondered if Mama was losing her hearing. She had stopped responding to my questions or directions. "Mama, will you please eat your chicken?" "Mama, do you still have a headache?" She'd just look at me with a blank stare, with no indication she had heard me and certainly no response. It happened over and over. A progression of Alzheimer's, I thought. And I'm sure I was right.
But, by ourselves last night, she was talking and answering questions. I know why. There were no distractions. No telephone ringing, no TV actor talking in the background, no one emptying trash or hauling laundry from one room to the next, no equally debilitated husband hollering for help or demanding attention. It was just the two of us, and we both loved it.
After a few minutes on the porch, I looked down the street and saw Sammy in the next yard. He was taking his precious time, sniffing the grass in his never-ending hunt for prey of any description, from grasshopper to squirrel. I called his name, and he came at a gallop. By the time he was in the yard, Mama spotted him. She reached down her hand, moving her fingers in an effort to get his attention and calling, "Here, kitty."
Sammy jumped onto the porch and made a beeline to Mama. First he rubbed against her leg and the outstretched hand, then he put his paws on her knees to test the territory and jumped up onto her lap. He rearranged himself until he got comfortable. Mama rubbed his back; I rubbed his head and under his chin, hopping he'd stay content and linger in her lap. He did just that.
Over the summer, Sammy would often choose everyone's lap except Mama's. She'd call him, reach down for him, and scold him when he wouldn't choose her: "You mean cat," she'd say.
I'd get so mad at him. I told my husband I wished I could bribe him. You know, "If you'll get in Grandma's lap and be still for 10 minutes, we'll go get a milkshake." There's no bribing a cat, of course. But things change, and over the last few weeks, Sammy almost always chooses Mama's lap.
Last night, she petted him and talked to him in a higher pitched voice than what she normally uses. The voice we all save for talking to babies and pets:
"Have you had any supper? Are you hungry?" she asked him at least five times. Each time, I'd tell her that Reggie had fed him both dry food and canned food and he shouldn't be hungry. "I don't have anything to feed you," she said. Mama always made sure man or animal was fed if they visited her house.
As she stroked the cat's fur, Mama talked about how pretty he was.
After about 20 minutes, Sammy fell asleep and drooped a little bit off Mama's lap.
"I sure don't want you to fall and get hurt," she said, looking down at the orange, purring cat in her lap.
He didn't fall but stayed put a little longer. Then he hopped up and stretched out on the cool bricks of the porch and fell asleep.
I stayed a few more minutes before returning Mama to the house and her spot on the couch beside Daddy.
I'm so thankful for these golden evenings of autumn and for a tomcat that can't be bribed.

When the Roll is Called Up Yonder I'll Be There

I don’t want to forget Tuesday night. I probably wouldn’t anyway, but I want to write about it, to tell the world about it.
My daddy might not remember the year he was born, or where the bathroom is or the front door, or how to put on his shoes, but he remembers the hymns he sang for decades in the pews of Marsh Swamp Free Will Baptist Church.
My daughter, Anna, and I stopped by Mama and Daddy’s last night after a visit to the county fair. Mama had a miserable day, and when I left her at suppertime, her eyes were red from hours of crying and frustration. I gave her a big hug, squeezed her hand and promised I’d be back before bedtime.
But it was Daddy who needed me more last night. Nighttime is nightmare time for Daddy. He has what’s known in the world of Alzheimer’s as Sundowners. Once the sun goes down, and actually a few hours before, what’s left of his sensibilities escapes him.
He panics and frets and complains and worries: Where will he sleep? Does anyone know where the bed is? How will he stand up from the couch? Will his feet reach the floor? How in the world will he take off all these clothes? Who will help him put on his night clothes? Who will help him take them off in the morning? Is anyone going to feed him? It goes on and on for hours.
He was in full panic mode when Anna and I arrived. Already dressed in his black and gray plaid pajamas, he was leaning to the right, almost falling over against the side of the couch, worrying aloud and loudly how he was going to get up.
“Will someone help me get up? I’ve got to get up from here.” It’s a common refrain with no real answer. If you ask him where he wants to go his response is: “I don’t know. How in the world am I supposed to know?”
I worked hard to distract him by rubbing his leg, talking softly and encouraging him to relax and calm down. He was having none of it.
“Why don’t we sing?” I said. He didn’t even move his head from its resting spot on the sofa, but his face perked up a little. “Do you want to sing? We can sing some church songs.”
“Those are good ones,” he said.
“What shall we sing?” I asked him. He didn’t have any suggestions. My mind raced through the hymns I grew up with, and I tried to think of ones I could remember. I felt like I was on a stage and sort of panicked myself because no song names came to mind. Then I remembered one:
“I was sinking deep in sin, far from the peaceful shore. Very deeply stained within, sinking to rise no more.”
Daddy still didn’t move, and I wondered if he was even listening to me.
“But the Master of the sea heard my despairing cry …”
And then I heard it. His weakened but beautiful voice joined in:
“From the waters lifted me now safe am I. Love lifted me. Love lifted me. When nothing else could help love lifted me.”
We sang along until we came to the end. I had his attention! He was distracted! He was singing!
Anna was amazed. I was ecstatic.
But what could we sing next?
Suddenly I was flooded with ideas, and we sang “How Great Thou Art,” “Just As I Am,” “Jesus Loves Me.” He didn’t always sing along with the verses, but by the time I hit the chorus, he would join in.
Then I remembered another song, which I knew was one of his favorites:
“When the trumpet of the Lord shall sound, and time shall be no more, and the morning breaks, eternal bright and fair.”
He finally picked up his head and I saw, I really did, a sparkle in his eye. A recognition. A flash of a memory perhaps. And, definitely, joy.
He sang along with me and really piped in when we got to the chorus:
“When the roll is called up yonder I’ll be there.”
But as soon as we finished, he started worrying again. “How am I going to get up?” he asked Anna.
“Daddy,” I said, “let’s think of something else to sing.”
He didn’t want to sing anymore and asked me to stop. But I’m not one to take no for an answer and asked him what was his favorite hymn. He sang a few lines from “When the Roll is Called Up Yonder “ again, and I joined in.
Then I asked him if he remembered “I Come to the Garden Alone”?
He hesitated for a few seconds, then looked straight ahead and sang by himself, his voice even weaker because I had tired him out. Weaker but even more beautiful and determined: “I come to the garden alone. While the dew is still on the roses.”
Anna looked at her grandpa, her eyes wide open with amazement and on the verge of tears. Tears did fill my eyes, but I started singing and didn’t worry if my emotion showed and my voice cracked.
“And the voice I hear, falling on my ear, the son of God discloses. And he walks with me and he talks with me, and he tells me I am his own…”
We sang the whole song. He knew every word. Every word.
But on most days, he can’t tell you the city we live in and doesn’t believe he’s in the right house. And many days he can’t recognize family members. But he knows the words of the songs he sang at his beloved Marsh Swamp Church.
I’ve read that our earliest memories are our strongest memories. I believe that’s true. I also believe I’ll have the memory of Tuesday night for years to come. I only wish Daddy could remember it too.