The Angels are Singing this Weekend

When I was finishing up my play ‘The Last Sentinel’, I knew there had to be something special to enhance its message of aging, friendship and the meaning of a life well lived.

So I contacted Tony Sasso, who in addition to performing in musical productions for over 45 years, is a talented actor and singer. In just the last six years, Tony has been in seven musicals and four dramas, holding lead roles in each one of these productions. In 2017, Tony had a lead role in another one of my plays entitled ‘Club 210.’

Tony had just the musical background and expertise that my play needed. But there was a catch. Tony’s summer acting schedule was such that he couldn’t stage another musical in the near future. Fortunately I was able to convince him that ‘The Last Sentinel’ would be different. It was a play with music in it. Tony agreed to become my musical director for ‘The Last Sentinel.’ It was Tony’s first time in a production role backstage versus on-stage.

The story-line for ‘The Last Sentinel’ is simple enough. Four old women in a nursing home are facing the end of their lives and not handling it well. A mysterious woman (the scooter lady) appears out of nowhere to offer advice on the here-after. That’s when the conflict, chaos, and fun begin.

In the story, the women make a pact to stick together and be there for one another until the end. It’s an agreement they struggle to keep. They nag at one another and yet show love and compassion at the same time. They all face the inevitable in different ways and reveal to the audience their true colors. They are irritable, persnickety and remind us of people we all know, knew or want to forget. But in the end, the four ladies represent a realistic portrait of individuals facing that ultimate test in life.

‘The Last Sentinel’ is a celebration of the human spirit when it is needed the most. It is a rich tapestry of life recaptured, the power of friendship and self-actualization celebrating life. What better way to remember someone’s final good-bye than with a smile on your face.

I told Tony ‘The Last Sentinel’ needed Angels: singers who could capture those poignant moments in the play and transform them into an emotional experience. Tony had just the answer.

As Cantor for the Choir at Saint Michael’s Catholic Church in Farmington for the last ten years Tony had a talented, experienced, and eager group of singers from which to choose. He had his Angels.

The Angels consist of Denise Dow, Karen Giusto, Dottie Knutson, Roxanne Mainz, and Pam Epperly. Carol Severson is the pianist. Denis and Tony did the arrangements for each song in the play.

I knew that the music would set this play apart from other plays I had written. There would be an opening number that sets the stage for the theme, mood and nature of the play. Then at the end of the performance another number would wrap up the cumulative emotions experienced during the play. In-between, there would be five numbers, each one different and each one a poignant statement for the scene being acting out on the stage.

Performances for ‘The Last Sentinel’ will be at 7:00 pm on August 15th, 16th, and 17th at the Steeple Center in Rosemount. In special consideration of seniors and others who might enjoy an afternoon performance, ‘The Last Sentinel’ will have a matinee at 2:00 on Saturday afternoon, July 17th. After each performance, there will be a special chocolate reception for all attendees.

Tony delivered on the Angels and now the audiences will get to hear and enjoy their heavenly musical approach to telling the story of ‘The Last Sentinel.’

Summer of Our Discontent

The summer of 2014 was the summer of our discontent. Not that anyone would ever lay claim to that dubious title. It was a curious confluence of elderly needs verses the growing demands from our grand-children. Sharon’s mother had never really adjusted to the death of her spouse and the loneliness of widowhood. Upon our return home this May she began to require constant care and attention.  Then there were two youngsters who relished the presence of grandparents in their lives and only had a few summer months to expand on it. Unfortunately, the Colorado kids couldn’t even get that unless we flew in on the silver bird.

Confronted by circumstances beyond our control, my wife and I were forced to place private needs and wants on hold in order to tend to her mother.  It’s one of those all too familiar family scenarios that usually isn’t talked for fear of sounding selfish or self-absorbed. There were needy people on both sides of the age spectrum; some growing and the other declining.

Of course, guilt and denial often play into the greater scheme of such things. You try to find a balance between serving those who need you and taking care of yourself. But often you do it under the guise of the obedient child because to talk about your own needs refutes your Catholic upbringing…never to think of yourself…only of others. 

It a kind of cult of denial that you might also have needs and wants and desires. For the time being those are put on hold. In this case, it was mainly by my wife, the eldest daughter, who did the heavy lifting by giving so much attention to her mother. There were other siblings to help but my wife, along with her sister, took on the lion’s share of responsibility. My role was that of the supporting spouse doing what I could to help and keeping my mouth shut.

Both kinds of caring; for her mother and the grandkids was the right thing to do. We understood that. Kids grow up too quickly to wait for an ideal time for involvement. There were soccer games, bird-watching, T-ball, baby-sitting, bike-riding, weekend overnights, zoo ventures, etc. It was six short months to fill in for the time absent from their lives. We also needed more time in the mile high city. Thank heavens for ‘face-time.’

And even under the cloak of family obligations, caring for the elderly was still a very difficult thing to do. It’s never convenient, comfortable or more often than not satisfying at the time. It’s simply what must be done for another family member. The alternative to do nothing is too heavy a burden to carry for the rest of one’s life.

So that young girl who at age five started taking on farm chores and helping her mother around the house had now come back home once again to accept the ultimate and final responsibility in that circle of life. It’s what is expected even if it is an ironic reversal of roles. It was a role that suited her well.

The Girl with Seven Suede Jackets

Yet while she was ideally suited to the task, there was always the chance of collateral damage to worry about. What concerned me the most was the stress and mental challenges associated with giving such care on an almost daily basis. The long trips down to Wabasha. The confusion over meds and treatments. The patient’s anger and depression over growing old and feeling badly most of the time. The move from home to assisted living. Selling the homestead and her mother’s rough adjustment to communal living. The growing burden of a mother in denial.

Too often Catholic guilt (feel free to choose your own religion here) plays too prominent a role in this denial of the negative effects on the care-givers. Unfortunately, I have seen several instances where the care-giver died from such stress and strain on their mental and physical being. It’s a high price to pay for caring for another person.

Sharon's mother in her teens.

So they struggle on. The caregiver wanting to do everything she can to help. The mother in denial and yet leaning more and more on those closest to her for solace in her slowly closing window of life. My role was relegated to that of a bit-player, a secondary shadow in the background, doing what I was told to do and supporting the care-giver anyway I could.

It’s a role I can handle quite well.

Except the part about keeping my mouth shut.

Caring for the Hand that Bites You

I mean no disrespect to the infamous ‘Greatest Generation.’ Their accomplishments on the planet are well documented and their place in American history unquestioned. But for all their great exploits there seems to be a certain number of them who have not taken to old age very well. 
 

As the average age for the elderly grows, their care and support has fallen primarily on the shoulders of their boomer children. We’ve become the sandwich generation where on one hand we have grandchildren to hover over while at the same time, our own parents increasingly demand more of our attention. 

Adding to these new responsibilities is often the challenge of dealing with elderly parents who aren’t able or willing to accept the reality of their situation. Somehow they feel cheated out of their life and take their frustrations out on their own adult children. Over the last several years, I’ve run into more than a couple of friends who are facing just such a dilemma in their lives. They’ve been forced to bear the brunt of their parent’s frustration and resentment about losing their independence, moving out of their home and their ability to control the final direction of their lives.

But this ‘angry at life’ phenomena isn’t just reserved for the elderly. Over the years I’ve unfortunately run into more than a fair number of these curmudgeons who somehow feel cheated out of what life has handed them. 

They’re not just in the nursing homes or assisted living facilities. They hang out at the ‘old timers’ coffee shop and the American Legion. They might be a neighbor who doesn’t want kids running across his lawn or complains when the newspaper isn’t on his front steps on time. I have one of those next door to me right now.

Those ‘mad at life’ disgruntled individuals were on my paper route back in 1955 and their descendants are probably on the same street today. I worked for one in the warehouse during the summer of ‘61 and had a foreman like that in a factory during the next summer. 

My sister and I were lucky. Even at 104, my stepfather never lost his appreciation for the simple things in life like fishing, card-playing and dancing with my mother. My mother fell under the spell of ‘why is this happening to me’ near the end of her life but overall, she continued staying busy as all good Germans were taught to do…even near the end.

I can think of one other exception. 

The other exception is the parents of a friend of mine. They’re both in their mid-eighties, have travel extensively and still baby-sit their great-grandchildren. They love playing any kind of board games and are the highlight of any party. 

I wish I knew what it was that propels some parents to embrace their twilight years with gracious acceptance while others hold on to past dreams and illusions and curse the process of ‘getting old.’ They seem to be mad at the world and so inexplicably they lash out at those closest to them; often it’s their children who only want to help them in their twilight years. It forces their care-givers to choose between letting them make their own life decisions or stepping in when they feel their parents can’t make those basic decisions anymore.

Not surprisingly, I have to believe so much of it originates in their head. My simple theory is based on nothing more than a loose analysis of other folks my age dealing with this issue. I’ve concluded that it is, to a great degree, a generational thing. I think the ‘greatest generation’ generally speaking didn’t interact with their children the same way we do with ours. They didn’t talk as candidly to them as we do nor were they able to see their own children as adults but rather they somehow kept them mentally in that ‘you’re my kid and I’m still your parent’ stage. 

Google is replete with many articles dealing with this subject. Some of them are thoughtful and insightful. Others are merely selling products and services. A couple of good ones are: 

Ten Tips for Caring for Elderly Parents – US News

The New Old Age Blog-NY Times.com

Caring for Elderly Parents – Huffington Post

My wife and I now find ourselves part of that sandwich generation. We want to spend as much time as we can with our grandchildren but feel strong obligations to help out our parents. Watching one’s parents lose their independence is one of the most challenging realities we must face as our parents age.

So in the end, until the end, we do what we have to do. We accept the good days and bad ones. We listen to the same stories over and over again. We bear the brunt of their complaining and criticism and we love them as much as we can. That’s what children are supposed to do for their parents. And appreciated or not, it’s what we can take to our own grave. That we cared when we should have and we did the best we could.

You can’t ask any more from an adult child.

Doing the Wabasha Shuffle

I’ve been doing the Wabasha shuffle for 40 plus years now. It started out when I was captivated by this brilliant blond from work with a worldly view of life and as well as a vivacious personality. She had been raised on a farm down south and I thought it would be interesting to visit that foreign environment.

Gradually the Wabasha shuffle matured into weekend visits to her parents farm, then their home in town and finally now to the nursing home where her father is residing with his Alzheimers disease. Her mother still lives in town and pretends she’s on her own. Yet it’s only because of weekly visits by her children and daily visits by town folk that she is able to live out her illusion of independence.

A farm in the family wasn’t what I thought it would be. When the kids were small, I had this idyllic vision of “Dick and Jane visit Grandpa’s Farm.”

Unfortunately reality painted quite a different picture. Grandpa was still a working farmer and had no time for little kids running behind his tractor. So Melanie spent her time trying to catch feral farm cats (good luck with that) and Brian wandered through the barn, finding hiding places up in the lofts.

Nothing much has changed in Wabasha as is often the case in small town America. But like so many others before me, I’ve shifted and changed and morphed into different personalities as the sands of time carried me from one career to the next and one lifestyle to another.

To the town folk of Wabasha, I’ve always been ‘one of them city boys.’ I stopped trying to make inroads into their conversations a long time ago. Farmers regarded me with even more suspicion because of my city ties. Imagine their collective consternation when one of their own married a big city fella.

On our last visit to Wabasha, even my uniform of the day was wrong. I was wearing my trail running shoes, jeans I hadn’t worn in six months, a black t-shirt that read’ I love SF,’ my Galway jacket and a baseball cap with ‘writer’ inscribed on it. Little did I know that the real uniform of the day was boots and jeans, sweatshirts (Twins led the Vikings with the U.S. Army coming up a solid third) cammie jackets and baseball caps (again the Twins were leading the Vikings)

So often going back home means going back in time. But as Bob Dylan famously said there is ‘no direction home.’ Sadly, it can’t be done. The time capsule that is Wabasha, Minnesota is replicated across the country. Returning there to capture what once was is like trying to catch the wind (apologies to Donovan). It hasn’t changed but we have and there in lies the dilemma.

I have a friend who is flying in from the East Coast to attend her 50^th high school reunion

in southwestern Minnesota. I think most people go to high school reunions to show off their lives in thinly veiled ways. It’s a game of “Look at who I married. Here is a picture of my handsome children and my beautiful grandchildren.” My friend became part of the East Coast academic/intellectia consortium of successful professionals. It’s probably a safe assumption that not all of her high school classmates have reached that same pinnacle of professional success. It can make for some awkward moments amid the social pleasantries and forced chatter of a reunion.

I’m guessing she will come to realize what I did at my own 50^th reunion. After fifties years apart, I had little if anything in common with my classmates. While I carried my accouterments of success in my head, it never came up. Men are that way. In theCompany of Old Men pretty much describes that scene. It was fascinating, enlightening, a little bit sad and a little bit funny. It brought back a few fond memories but mostly it brought out a sly smile and wonderment that I had actually survived the trauma and confusion of those teen years.

Now after a second season in Palm Springs, returning to Minnesota to do the Wabasha shuffle is once again part of my summer agenda. And yet it is still pretty much the same soundtrack in terms of ‘been there before, don’t want to go back there again.’ But, of course, we must for the in-laws. It’s all part of shared marital responsibilities.

So I smile and make pleasant faces and try very hard to care about the price of grocery store staples and bloated government programs and all those issues paramount to small town America. Those foreign environments on the coast are never discussed and focus is always given to matters that really count like spring crops and fall harvests.  It’s still a foreign environment I rarely inhabit and must strive hard to make it work for me. I left all that behind when I moved away from home.

I’ll leave my Zen back in the desert for the summer and try to forge an understanding of small town America back here in Minnesota. I’m willing to step back in time but never enough to get lost there.