The first time I saw her, she was standing in the middle of her garden in the early weeks of a hot Georgia Fall, picking tomatoes. She had on a giant floppy hat, a full face of makeup, a long-sleeved double-knit pantsuit (that she made herself), replete with painted fingernails and kitten heels. She was my fiance's grandma, affectionately known as "Babe." When she saw us, she threw up her hands in glee and practically ran to the car. She welcomed me as if she'd known me all my life. I was shown around their huge, rambling farmhouse and grounds, then she and I settled in the kitchen to prepare lunch. The ceilings must have been 12-feet high, the walls made of ancient beadboard. I loved it and her immediately. I quickly learned that, in her eyes, Ken could do no wrong. I think that if Ken had up and murdered somebody, she'd have blamed the other person. She loved him to pieces and for that, I am grateful.
Peggy Ann, her only child, tragically died of pneumonia at 24 when Ken was 2-1/2 years old and his brother was five months. Babe and Pop kept the boys for three years, until the boys' Dad remarried. In the many years following our engagement and marriage, Babe could not bring herself to speak of her. If the subject was broached, her eyes would well up and she would excuse herself. I can only imagine the pain behind those eyes. Her only, beloved child, lost so young. She did tell me that those two boys saved her life after the tragedy. It gave her something to live for and a purpose in the midst of the worst of days.
Pop and Babe lived at the farm where he grew up, tending cattle and farming a huge garden. Much of their sustenance was home-grown. They knew how to do and fix most everything. By the time I came along, however, Babe thought that modern conveniences and the whole plethora of food shortcuts was manna from heaven. She particularly loved the ideas of canned biscuits, whipped topping and orange juice concentrate. We could make a recipe book out of the different ways she used canned biscuits. She made all sorts of goodies out of them: pigs in a blanket, fried pies, fried donuts, chicken and dumplings, for starters. One time, when I mentioned that we were planting a garden at our house, she said, "Don't do that! Just go to the farmer's market!" She didn't assign any merit to going back to the land. I guess she'd already done her time and was ready to be done with it. She also loved sugar, which happens to be my drug of choice. I've never seen anyone as sugar-obsessed as her. She put it in and on everything. Her iced tea was more like syrup than a drink. She loved to bake and would make several different kinds of cakes, all on the same day. There was coconut cake, vanilla cake with chocolate icing, fruit cake, orange slice cake, chocolate cake, pound cake, and several others I can't remember. She would bake the cakes, and while they were cooling and before they were frosted, she'd pour boiled sugar syrup all over, and poke holes in them (to let the sugary goodness penetrate the whole cake). After everything was cool, she'd frost the cakes and then slice them. She'd fill up tupperware containers with various slices, sandwiched with waxed paper in between. These then went into the freezer. After any meal, maybe even breakfast, out would come a container filled with all the different kinds of cake. You'd eat until you were bursting, and then she'd start in with wondering why you stopped. She kept her house blazing hot, summer and winter (she must have had a refrigerator inside her spine, because she was always cold)...after her gut-busting meals we would all sit around the living room, fighting the urge to nap. But Babe was no napper. Her word box was eternally full, with strong opinions and suggestions and optimistic views of life. She was a sober-minded Christian, one who did good for others and helped when she could. Her and Pop both read their Bibles every day. They were the salt of the earth people, content with little and good stewards of all they surveyed.
I think the Alzheimers started years before any diagnosis. Pope knew, and sold the old farmhouse and moved into a little house right in town. She was naturally a bit OCD, with little variance in her routines or daily life. She was tidy and feminine, with the strength of a farm wife. Her house was minimally-decorated (she might have thought I was a little wacky with all my painting and rearranging) and clean. Food and meals were ordered and of very high importance. Her disciplines and methods were streamlined and simple, but over time, the grooves were laid down and the disease took over. She began to repeat herself incessantly. I was young and yet to understand it all. I sometimes thought she was purposely trying to irritate me. She would call me "Annette" (my husband's stepmother) over and over. Pop began to call and say that he was going to need help with her. We would make the 2-1/2 hour trek there with our four children and Ken and the boys would work on the yard while I did things in the house with Liz and Babe. She would be chipper and happy when we got there. We wondered at why this was hard for Pop, as she seemed pretty easy to deal with. We weren't seeing the daily of it, which was actually hellacious.
Ken and I bought land and moved our four kids into a leaky old camper onto our land and proceeded to start the build on our house. This was no typical project. We were literally building the house ourselves from the foundation up to the rafters. It was right about when we got settled on the land, that we got a call. Pop had to go into the hospital with a stress heart attack. Taking care of her had finally called his bluff. I drove to Lincolnton with our four children, to watch over Babe. I had no idea what the next weeks would entail. She never slept more than 15-20 minutes at a time, wandering through their tiny house all night. I had the children lock themselves in their bedroom so they could sleep. When Ken's aunt relieved me for a week, I won't even tell the crazy story of our trip back home. Suffice it to say, I was so sleep-deprived that it's just the mercy of God that I-20 was mostly deserted that morning.
The next five years were torturous, to say the least. We didn't have any choice except to put them in a nursing home close by, as we were six people living in a camper at the time. Pop never walked again and only wanted to go home to Jesus. Two years later, he did just that. Babe lived another three years past him, living in that smoggy half-life zone that is Alzheimers. She was internally so fractured, violent, frazzled. The only peace she had was when scripture was read to her. She could be in a crazy fit, but if you pulled out a Bible and started reading, she would sit down quietly, close her eyes and move her lips to the words. The Spirit was there, even if her brain was not.
I think of them often. They rescued my husband and his brother, instilling in them the meaning of unconditional love, the goodness of the Lord, and what it means to be constant and devoted. I am sometimes ashamed of my aggravation, of not understanding her disease, of my lack of faith in the face of such a difficult season. Death, disease, diminishment come to us all. The world and our fragile flesh are cracked and in need of redemption, especially when our strength ebbs. How grateful I am that they trusted in Someone higher than them.
