Shakespeare, Downton Abbey, and Banana Bread

image from Vic Trevino on Pinterest

                                                    "All the world's a stage,

                                                    And all the men and women merely players"

                                                    "Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
                                                    That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
                                                    And then is heard no more"

The first quote is from Shakespeare's As You Like It, classified by scholars as a Comedy. The second is from MacBeth, classified as a Tragedy. The difference my friends is that a comedy ends happily for its main characters. In Shakespeare's tragedies, they usually end up dead.

As a writer, I have a tendency to see my life as stories. Not perhaps the most pragmatic way to live, maybe not even the sanest way to live. But I'm still here.

These past few weeks have been difficult. My 90-year-old father's mind is failing. That's not unusual, unfortunately. Since I am, for all intents and purposes, responsible for his care, I've been trying to find an appropriate place for him to live.

Until last September, with a bit of help from home care givers, Daddy lived with my husband and me. That had been a good situation. Daddy has always been a social person, interested in the events of the day and the people around him and their lives. His care givers were kind, efficient, and best of all, they enjoyed visiting with him.

As his dementia worsened, it was obvious that we needed someone awake 24 hours-a-day, so he would be safe. It would have been financially prohibitive to have individual care givers around the clock, and it was too much for me. So he moved into an assisted care facility.

The facility was beautiful. He had a studio apartment and could push a button on his wrist for a care giver and they would come right away. The food was excellent -- a priority for my father. His enjoyment of food has not diminished in spite of the dementia.

Now, Daddy has always been the kind of man to get things done. He would analyze a problem, consider the options, then solve it. His natural inclination to jump-to-it has not diminished.

Therein lies the problem. He could remember to push the call button, but he couldn't remember to wait for a care giver. He's wobbly. And the disinclination to wait has led to a number of falls. None has caused injuries more serious than bruising, but injuries were inevitable if we went on this way.

Looking for a facility that offers 24-hour care was in the realm of tragedy. I would visit one. It would smell clean. The rooms were bright and cheerful. The staff were gracious and attentive, but the patients were all sitting in wheelchairs staring off into the distance.

Then a friend told me that her father had been in a residential care home. These are regular houses modified to take care of people. They have six or eight patients with trained care givers 24 hours-a-day. In the one I visited, the patients were all involved in various things. The sun had come out and a good ending to this story seemed at hand.

Before Daddy moved to his new home, he was concerned that the other people there would not "be as bad off" as he. I reassured him that some would not be and others would be worse off.

And truly that was the case. His roommate uses a walker and oxygen, still reads the daily paper and works Sudoku puzzles. One day the man was watching a television show -- on a Spanish language channel. He is not Hispanic and multilingual people are a rarity in our society. I asked him if he spoke Spanish. He looked at me as though my question made no sense at all. "No," he said. So his Sudoku puzzles may be only an entertainment in the same way. I don't know. I've not looked too closely.

When Daddy's doctor asked him if he had a roommate, Daddy surprised me by saying there was "a man who rides the same broomstick." He meant his roommate. Comedy? Daddy has always had a good sense of humor, but this was not an example of that. His confusion is advancing.

Daddy moved March 5. We moved all Daddy's stuff out of his apartment Sunday, March 6. Kind of sad really because there isn't enough room in his new bedroom for his things. He does have the really big clock that he can see in spite of his macular degeneration and the wedding picture of him and Momma and Momma's high school graduation picture.

But that night I had Downton Abbey.

Downton Abbey has been my favorite TV series for all of its six years. My husband calls it a soap opera, and I suppose it is. But I care about the characters and it always seems to come out pretty much right for those characters or at least give me hope that it will. Eventually. It is the hour that I can escape my own dramas and enjoy someone else's.

The final episode. Everything changes. Everything comes to an end.

I was actually afraid that the whole thing would be tied neatly up with a shiny red bow. Words like "syrupy sweet" and "maudlin" hovered around me, threatening to undo my great regard for Fellowes' writing. How was Julian Fellowes going to end it without caving in the most Hallmarkian fashion to the public's desire that Edith be happy?

I was more concerned with Thomas. I know, I know. I adopt unlovable parrots that bite. Lovable dogs that bite. Eccentric cats that bite. I even liked Snape all the way through the Harry Potter books.

And, whether Fellowes handled it well or not (which by-the-bye, he did handle it well) the more anxiety provoking was what was I going to do with the rest of my Sunday nights?

Then, to top it all off, I decided to make a banana nut bread with the bananas Daddy had left in his apartment.

I turned on the oven to preheat, mashed the bananas, chopped the walnuts, stirred up the batter, poured it into a Pyrex baking dish that once belonged to my mother, and discovered that my oven was not heating.

Well, #$#@!

A new question -- does banana nut bread dough freeze well? Even more importantly does it bake well after being thawed?

But my husband looked it up oven repair on the internet and ordered a part. It's so nice to be married to him. Yesterday the part came and he fixed the oven.

Today is Sunday. And we have banana nut bread to eat with whatever I do with my Sunday night.

All's Well that Ends Well, not a line from a Shakespeare play, but the title. A play that the critics cannot put into a single category, but must be included in both his comedies and his tragedies. Just like life.

                    

           Thomas in a bowler, a sure sign of success at last.        A fine loaf of banana nut bread.

To Be or Not to Be Sad -- an essay

image from en.people.cn

   This morning my dad slept late. As he took his morning pill, I commented that the snow that had been forecast for today was running late and wouldn’t be here until tomorrow. He grumped that he’d just as soon not have any. I asked him what he’d like for breakfast – egg and toast or oatmeal. I know he likes both. He said it didn’t matter. He just wanted to get it over.

   That’s it. I’ve had enough and, like the line from Network, I’m not going to take it anymore.

   My father lives with my husband and me. He’ll be 90 years old in May. As with any almost nonagenarian, he has some physical and mental limitations. He can’t walk as far as he used to, though he still walks around the block – with his cane. He’s forgotten many things, but because he knew more than most people to begin with, he still knows more than the majority of people who live in this block that he walks around.

   He listens to conservative radio talk shows practically twenty-four hours a day. Where they argue the world is going to hell in a hand basket and it’s all because of Obama Care and illegal aliens. Not that TV is any better with its Judge this or that and Maury Povich. Even Dr. Phil. None of which Daddy watches. (Let me give him credit. He does like reruns of the old Andy Griffith show. If you haven’t watched it in a while, you might check it out. Its humor is gentle and Andy is thoughtful and kind.)

   Okay. So maybe Daddy’s depressed. Not unusual for people his age and we have had some dreary days weather-wise. It is winter. Maybe sadness is like mercury or lead poisoning, it can build up in you over the years. Daddy was a child during The Depression and The Dust Bowl. He came of age when the whole world was going to war and participated in that war as a very young adult. As bad as the world was then, he seems to think the world is worse now.

   Maybe it’s because so many people he’s known and loved are gone. Like all of us, he has hopes and dreams that fade or have become memories that fade.

   Everything changes. Most beyond understanding. Simple things like communications. You can walk around the world while talking on your cell phone without being tethered to a telephone line. You can cook without a flame. You can travel from Denver to Oklahoma City in an hour and 35 minutes, maybe faster if the jet stream is going your way. To the Moon from Earth in 8 hours and 35 minutes like the New Horizons probe on its way to Pluto. Many of these changes may be unfathomable, but they’re also amazing and wonderful.

   It’s easy to find ourselves surrounded by negativity. Negativity is what defines news. Sunday is the Super Bowl. The winners won’t get nearly as much air time as whatever riots break out in their home city in honor of celebration. (Though with Seattle and Foxborough, MA, maybe that won’t be the case.) We may have to content ourselves with ‘Deflate Gate’ for our Super Bowl negativity.

   And there’s war. This war or that war. Deaths from war are always awful, a blight on the human condition. 
   A little history here: In the Civil War (or the War of Northern Aggression if you’re from Mississippi) 214,938 Americans died in combat. 400,000 to 500,000 died from other causes, like accidents and disease. World War I took 53,402 American lives in combat and 63,114 from other causes. (Of course some say we were a little late getting into that one.) WWII had 291,557 combat deaths and 113,842 from other causes. The War on Terror (Afghanistan and Iraq) has had 5,281 American combat deaths and 1,432 from other causes. (Information from Wikipedia)

   Any death by combat is too many. But look at these figures. There is something striking besides the horrifying numbers and the significant reduction in the numbers between the Civil War and The War on Terror. The war deaths caused by ‘other.’ Deaths due to accidents and disease attest to the remarkable achievements humanity has made in medicine. This is positive. Not that I’m advocating going to war to advance medicine.

   Arguably I (and by default my dad) live in the most beautiful place in the world with its snow-capped Rocky Mountains and unlimited skies. But, of course, Southeast Arkansas must be the most beautiful place in the Spring with its azaleas and wisteria and the deep green light of the piney woods. And Logan County, Oklahoma, in the Fall with a brilliant yellow cottonwood in the valley spreading sunshine even on rainy days.

   The point is: if we are sad we have an antidote right at hand. No matter where we live or what kind of work we do, who we live with or what kind of movies we watch, or who our parents or children are there is always something good we can choose to see or hear or touch or smell or taste or remember or think about.

   So for Daddy, I’m assigning him a daily task. He is to find at least three things in his life for which he can be grateful. I’m going to do it, too. And today the first thing on my list is my Daddy.

My Daddy

Portrait by Bob O'Daniel