No one is more keenly aware than I  that I have been sadly remiss in my bloggish duties, and that, all over America, ones of people are crying, "What ho?"  And it would be nice to say that I have had a life so full that my time had calls upon it that were unrelenting.  But the truth is that I am and have always been a lazy and unreliable correspondent, and that I have actually done rather better blogwise than I had any reason, based on experience, to expect.  There were, of course, a few things that kept me from slipping into a coma these past weeks, but not really all that many.  Faithful Shaggarati will recall that me dear auld Mum has been slipping into dementia, and one thing that has happened in the past weeks is the resolution of that issue.

I have always wondered what it would be like to send one's child off to his or her first day of school.  I remember well my own first day - the trepidation and feeling, quite correctly as it turned out, that life was about to change forever.  But I have not had the opportunity to send my own child off alone to a new part of his life to be lived among strangers – to see him embark looking so small, so innocent, so poorly armed against adversity.  And now, in a way, I have finally had that experience in an unexpected way.  There is a well-regarded assisted-living facility on the outskirts of the town my mother lives in - and by outskirts, I do not mean on the edge of the central village, but rather a two-mile trip through farmers' fields and patches of woodland, past ferocious attack deer and killer rabbits to the sunny isolation of Desolation Pines, which we shall call this facility.  And in this facility, a room had become available, which after a zillion interviews, financial reviews, doctor's exams and so forth, Mom was declared qualified to occupy.  Getting Mom through all the fore-mentioned requirements was a task akin to, but infinitely more difficult than, herding cats.  And no, it was not me who helped negotiate this maze, but my brothers George and Luke, and the latter's girlfriend Carol, urged on and facilitated by the considerable skills and patience and investigatory skills by phone and internet of my sister Lucy in California. 

But last week the day came, and after Luke suddenly balked, and said he would in no way act against Mom's expressed wish, which he then proceeded to maneuver into doubt and recalcitrance.  Luke is the only one of us who has never lived for long periods in other states and he has had a close and bewildering relationship to Mom for his adult lifetime.  He was transferring the reluctance and doubt he holds for this move, to her.  Mom's growing debility has been far harder on him than the rest of us, because he has not really had a period of time away in which to move his relationship with the parental unit from that of child to parent to that of two adults.  He is what is called, I believe, a man's man - full of physical courage and knowledge of how to get grown-up things done - he can re-wire, build, plumb and grow anything, he can negotiate good deals in cases that leave me gibbering and paying a premium just to get it over with, and he went far in the Golden Gloves competition during his youth.  And like most of these strong silent types, I find to my astonishment, he has the ability to deal with emotional issues similar to that of a two-year-old.  I have often heard women say that their men, when sick, are like babies, and I have come to see that for those men most stalwart in life and battle, this seems to be true.  I bet when Ike had the sniffles, Mamie had to spoon-feed him cut up veggies and wake up to soothe him at all hours of the night.  It seems that the less manly of us in day-to-day living seem to be the most grown-up when it comes to issues of the life internal.  Be that as it may, it looked like we were headed for impasse in a situation where all reason cried out for Mom to receive more care than we could give her.  And then, on the appointed day, Carol went behind Luke's back and deposited Mom at Desolation Pines and left her there.   That night when I heard that Mom had been left at Desolation Pines, I felt I finally really knew what it was to send someone I loved: small, weak and incompletely armed, into the care and company of strangers.  I lay awake much of the night feeling very sad, though I have not an ounce of doubt that Des Pines was the only right solution.

"Where's Mom?" Luke asked in agitation that evening of his beloved when he found Mom's home empty.  "Oh, I left her at Desolation Pines," quoth she, airily.  Now that the deed is done (and by other than he), Luke says it feels like a ton has rolled off his shoulders.  Lucy has flown in and has been going through Mom's belongings, deciding what to send on to Desolation Pines, what to dispose of, and what to hold for the rest of us to consider.  In the process she has found over nine hundred dollars hidden here and there, as well as some, but not all, of the more expensive jewelry her progeny had bestowed upon Mom over the years, all of which Mom had long ago pronounced 'stolen'.   We found, in Mom's mostly empty jewelry box, a note in her writing, no longer attached to the pin to which it referred, that read

"Frankie traded one of his trucks to a boy in school for this pin for me when he was little.  I wonder if the boy's mother ever missed it." 

George thinks the pin in question was a shiny silver pin that Mom used to wear.  It is characteristic of Mom to append that wry last observation to a note that she must have written in a sentimental or sad moment.  She was not in the habit of keeping notes on where her possessions came from, and probably wrote this note after Frankie died. 

The folks at Des Pines, who seem extremely kind, competent and friendly, have urged us not to visit for a week or two, until Mom has acclimated.  Luke has called every day and apparently Mom has made a friend with whom she eats and takes walks.  She has missed no meals and has participated in all the activities available.  We shall be able to visit soon, and to take her out for meals and visits.  We had the usual "Breakfast Club" at Mom's place last Sunday, although without Mom, of course, and it was actually a lot of fun.  Missing Mom was compensated for by relief that the right thing had been done and a serious concern was laid to rest.  Lucy's task of going through Mom's possessions had revealed a mind that was even more confused than we knew.

The other things which have been vying for my time involve the arrival of May and June weather, mowing and planting and hanging up - then lying in - a hammock.  I have been circumambulating my estate, marvelling at the vast quantity of peonies we have acquired here and there.  The number of blooms this year is astonishing - by the mailbox, and in the front, side and back yards.  The clients of the landscaping company for which George works are constantly having him tear out old perennials for some new scheme they have, and George brings home the displaced plants.  Peonies are the king of perennials; a single plant can last 100 years, which is far longer than the attention span of the wealthy, who seem to prize novelty above all else.  Thus our humble estate is awash in pink and purple and white blooms - some of these plants have as many as 50 huge blooms at a time. 

At work we are having a major upgrade which is costing hundreds of thousands of dollars and which is occupying every waking hour of most of the folks there.  I am singularly untouched by this and have not worked a minute more than my accustomed (and reluctant) 40 hours per week.  I have seen so much of this kind of thing; one is expected to behave as though the entire future of mankind rides on the outcome and frankly I care as little about the project as I do about the future of mankind, neither of which I expect to partake in for very much longer.  I have spent some time doing the math over and over and I do believe that next year at this time, I will be job-free at last.  And then the world will indeed know what a dance of joy looks like.  It would be extremely annoying if I simultaneously shuffled off this mortal coil, although there is no reason to think I will, other than my awareness of Fate's over-developed and malevolent sense of irony. 

(Later addition) – It is well that I am aware of the malevolence of Fate, since I had a nice taste thereof this morning after the Breakfast Club, when I stopped at Desolation Pines en route to my dreary abode in Smallville preparatory to beginning the workweek, to see Mom for the first time since her move.  She was all in a doodah.  Unfortunately, she is forced to share a bathroom with one other lady there, and it seems she opened the door when said lady was enthroned.  The lady was understandably agitated and complained to  the management.  It is unclear whether the complaint was made within the same minute – the lady hopping frantically down the hall with her pants about her ankles, but the impact on Mom was as if this were the case.  Back in a rush has come all her paranoia and fear of offending or of fearsome retribution.  She was in her room door closed when I arrived, and is afraid now to use the bathroom.  What she has done to relieve the necessary problem in which this results is best passed over in silence.  I had a talk with a really nice woman on the desk, and she is going to check frequently to make sure Mom is having her needs taken care of.  But this has changed Mom’s feelings about the place radically (“It used to be so nice here,” she told me.)  and I very much fear that when Luke makes his first visit tomorrow it will set him in a doodah greater than hers.  There is no good solution to Mom’s illness other than Desolation Pines; she simply cannot return to where she was before – even if someone moved there with her, she is rapidly moving beyond the abilities of a non-professional to cope.  There is no room available at Des Pines with its own bathroom, and I am not sure it would be affordable were one to open up.   So here we are back (nearly) at square one. 

Ah, well, Fate is not our friend.  There is, of course, another being reputed to be in charge of these things, but it – or he – of course, is all about love.  Maybe I have learned not only how it feels to send a defenseless loved one off to a new life, but also what if feels like to be in an abusive relationship.  I know for sure I can’t take a whole lot more of this ‘love’. 

Well, we shall see what the future holds.  I can’t wait.