End of the Trail

It’s been a little over two and a half years since I made the phone call where I learned of my father’s death from my shaken, disoriented mother. I had called because one of my cousins contacted me to say that one of their friends had seen an ambulance in front of 5 Bigelow Road the day before, around 5 am. 36 hours had passed since my dad had died in the E-town hospital. My mother had been sitting in her recliner when I called. Dazed. She was not with him when he died, wisely choosing to stay home as they drove off to the hospital in the ambulance.

Today my mother is safe and comfortable in an assisted living community literally 5 minutes from my front door. I had been visiting her three to four times a week until the COVID-19 pandemic shut down practically everything, everywhere. Over the past months I’ve been able to see her from afar, participating in a Mother’s Day “Mardi Gras”-style drive by parade, with colorful “Miss You Mom” banners, and later through closed windows assisted with cellphones to speak. Digital technology has been helpful during these times of isolation, allowing many to communicate and continue work through Facetime, Zoom meetings, etc. But to those who are not in the least digital natives the transition has not been smooth or even welcomed. Mom’s hearing is deteriorating and the small, “senior-friendly” mobile phone we gave her was not helping. Conversations had pretty much turned into, “How are you doing?” “Whaa?” she’d reply. “Can you hear me?” “Yes” she’d reply. “Do you need anything?” “Yes,” she’d reply. “OK, what?” “Yes,” she’d reply. A frustrating exchange for both parties, I can assure you.

My wife, Kim, found a landline phone that not only features large numbered buttons and programmable speed dial but an incoming volume amplifier. Despite the pandemic lock down we were able to have it installed and it works! Mom can hear, but still doesn’t have a lot to say.

She spends most of her days buried in Word Search puzzle books, of which I struggle to keep her in fresh supply. They can’t publish the damn things fast enough. I continue to drop off “Care” packages of microwave popcorn, bottled water, chocolate, etc. But even when I could visit her face to face, her melancholy weights heavy. Her eyes quietly look at me and I feel this immense sense of guilt. “I’m stuck in here because of you” she seems to silently say.

I don’t know if it’s my imagination, my sense of helplessness, the anxiety of the pandemic or just maybe I am interpreting her quiet stares accurately.

As much as we have prodded her to get more involved in community activities she requires someone to physically coerce her to participate. Thankfully there are a couple professionals in her community that excel at this. Mom proudly shows off her jewelry projects like a 7 year old. I only wish that she’d do more with what her care givers offer. In the meantime I’ll shake off the guilt. It sucks to be the last of your generation. You’ve seen so many of your friends and family pass before you. As the John Prine song says, “Old people just grow lonesome.” (Sadly, John was, as of this post, one of the 100,000 victims of the still active virus.)

So happy or not, she’s settled. And that settles it.

Now mom’s old house, the house that refuses to be sold, is under contract again. With brighter prospects of actually closing this time around. Two and a half years ago it was jam packed and filled to the brim with two cars, a new rider mower, a portable generator and the possessions of several bygone generations. Gathering mountains of dust. Dozens of ferry trips back and forth across Lake Champlain to Vermont, where the closest Good Will in South Burlington stood. Dozens of trips to the dump in Mineville, where the attendants rummaged through my bagged up junk for Yearbooks and imitation floral arraignments. Drawers packed with old jack knives, bullets, coins, TV remote controls, VHS tapes, mismatched flatware, screws, bolts, nails, hundreds of keys, costume jewelry, receipts, letters and holiday cards. And lots of really useless stuff. Haystacks of soiled and dirty clothes. Rotary telephones, ancient and heavy farm and road construction-related tools, outdated canned goods, inoperable appliances, dented and cracked cookware, knick-knacks and the detritus of lives lived.

The house now sits completely empty. Rugs and linoleum cut and hauled out, with a brand new heating system complements of the failed furnace fiasco of the past winter. Reflecting back, the effort seems Herculean.

Social distancing has made orchestrating a remote closing a challenge. Dropping off P.O.A. and related documents at the front door of mom’s assisted living community for her signature and return, trip after trip to the post office to send them Certified Mail.

If this sale goes through, I will be finally finished with the old homestead. All the property will have been sold. No more Moriah School taxes. No more Town of Moriah property taxes. No more frustrating calls about failed water pumps, floods, snow removal, lawn care, and fuel oil. The financial ties to the Adirondacks will all have been severed. Family ties will remain. I’ve several cousins who have chosen to remain in those mountains and along the big lake. I understand why. I do miss the air. Clean, bracing and energizing. It really is one of the last best places.

But for me it’s lights out and please lock the door when you leave.