Lenten Reflections #36

“What color is this?” my 90-year-old Dad asked, sitting on the edge of a plastic chair, pulling out a round, black tin with the words “KIWI” written across the top.

“Black,” I said. He placed it carefully in the box and pulled out another

“This one?”

“Black.”

“This one?”

“Black.”

“Dad gummit! I need brown. I can’t see these.” Dad’s macular degeneration is causing a slow decline of his vision. “The doctor said I’d lose 75% of my vision. But that’s okay. We can do this.” He said it like we were all looking through his eyes, only seeing the small disk of polish with blurry words on top.

I reached into the old shoe-shine kit, outfitted with a horsehair brush, several circular tins of polish, and a neatly folded rag.

“Here, Dad. I know this is brown. I remember getting it at a yard sale for you.”

He chuckled and smiled. “A yard sale.” He echoed my words and sounded like he was remembering an old friend.

Dad loves yard sales, going to them, holding them, talking about them. When Mom and Dad were younger, they would hit up the “Free piles” at sales. Broken chairs, old trunks, tables, and unfinished quilts were saved and given new lives. Together, they would repair, upholster, stain, paint, stitch, and clean each item, readying them for their new owners. Then every summer we would have a family yard sale. He loved visiting and bargaining with people, sometimes being jokey and saying things like, “$4.00? That’s way to much to pay us, how about $2?”

Dad reached in the dark, stained wooden shoe shine box, and pulled out a small bottle of liquid shoe shine.

“What color?” He asked.

“Black. Would you like me to do the soles?”

“Sure.” He said. He sighed, rubbing the polish on the brown leather shoes. “When I shined shoes in Barrelas (his childhood neighborhood), I charged 15¢. Yup, 15¢ and a few times customers gave me a quarter, and for change, I didn’t have change!”

“Well, what did you do?” I asked.

“I ran!!” Then I’d hear, “I’m going to tell your dad!” The words trailing off in the distance.

Dad squeezed and globbed the brown liquid on the shoes and it dripped on the patio floor. “How does it look?”

“Like new!” I said. pulling the red, vintage brush from the box and buffing one shoe at a time.

“I used to love polishing my shoes. Still do actually.”

What I Learned:

Listen to their stories. Objects jog our memories, and stories hold us all together. Remember to take pride in your shoes and keep them shiny.

Thanks for joining me.

I’m so glad you’re here,

Lucretia

Lenten Reflections #34

As I spend time with my parents, I have tried to focus on what they can do, can remember, and can impart.

So, I’ve jotted a few simple, timeless lessons:

Mom: Feed the birds.

Dad: After everyone puts their dishes in the dishwasher, rearrange them because they did it wrong.

Mom: Always wear an apron when cooking.

Dad: Keep moving, there is always something to do.

Mom: No laundry on Sunday.

Dad: Make sure you have enough wood for the winter.

Mom: Make photo albums.

Dad: Call friends to check on them, before they are in the obit section of the paper.

Mom: Fold sheets as you take them off the clothesline.

Dad: Clean and put your tools away after every use.

Mom: Get an education…no one can take it away from you.

Dad: Fix things yourself, at least try.

Mom: Arrive early to church.

Dad: Start shaving when it’s time to leave for church.

Mom: Talk to your plants, they’ll listen.

Dad: Throw seeds anywhere; if they want to grow, they will.

What I learned:

Change is inevitable.

Each time I come to see Mom and Dad, they wake up a little later, move a little slower, and forget a little more. But there are those moments when I feel like Mom knows I’m her youngest daughter and just maybe remembers all of the piano lessons she drove me to, the tortillas we made together, or the nights she stayed up helping me type school papers.

Then there were the yards of fabric we cut to make dresses with ruffles, duffle bags with multiple zippers, terry cloth shorts with edging, and blouses with horrifying button holes.

Maybe they both remember galavanting around Mexico City, or visiting me in DC when I thought I was cool and business-like, or walking me down the aisle and helping me figure out how to be a mom. “Babies need a schedule,” Mom said. So I wrote it all down, timed naps and meals, and couldn’t imagine not having a system.

As always, I’ll hold on to the lessons and the moments with them forever.

Thanks for joining me.

I’m so glad you’re here,

🙂 Lucretia

February 28, 3026

Lenten Reflections #11

“Oh, gosh, do you cry every time you leave?” I asked my sister as she fastened her seatbelt, blinking her watery, tired eyes. “Some days,” she replied, glancing at her phone, ready to make a call on her way home to help someone with something; it didn’t matter who or what—if she said she’d help, she would. I waved goodbye and said a prayer, hoping she’d get a little rest.

I was on. Mom walked outside with a Dove Bar in hand, and in the distance, I heard the rumble of the wood splitter starting. There’s nothing like seeing your legally blind 90-year-old dad operate a motorized, hardened steel blade by himself. I shifted Mom over so I wouldn’t lose focus on either of them. Then Mom suddenly went into nurturing mode and said, “I’ll get you gloves.” Dad and I began splitting wood into smaller, more manageable sizes that he could carry. After the first wheelbarrow full, I didn’t see Mom return, so I said, “Let’s finish tomorrow.” “We still have all of this,” Dad said, sweeping his arm toward the rest of the woodpile, and kept working as if tomorrow depended on it. I looked up briefly and saw Mom approaching, cradling gloves and a hat.

“I can’t believe I found them so fast,” she said proudly, handing them to me like a treasure she discovered only to share with her daughter. I slipped the two right-handed gloves on and secured the bucket hat on my head. “You have to protect yourself when you help Dad with this. Go slowly and don’t rush.” I thought about how Dad rushes as if there’s a wood-splitting deadline he’s barely going to meet, while Mom works methodically, pacing herself like the metronome on the piano—measured, steady, calm. We finished up, and I mentally prepared for Mom’s sundowning—the dreadful circadian rhythm disruption when her confusion becomes overwhelming for all of us.

Before dinner, our dear neighbors stopped by with a plate of freshly made Biscochitos, a small piece of plastic wrap revealing cinnamon-sugar-coated cookies. I thought about how these are the allies we need in our lives. Neighbors like this sweet couple, who built a gate between their home and Mom and Dad’s to make it easier to help, visit, or deliver cookies.

At 1:20 a.m., the sundowning occurred.

“This is not my home. I’d know if I had a daughter. How did I get here?”

I texted my sisters: How do I get Mom to transition from her reality to today?

The three dots on my phone pulsed like a heartbeat: “Try to agree with her and accept as much as possible. Try music and singing, and if she’s up, give her a pancake. Walk her around the house.”

When Mom is in this altered reality, she clocks in at about 3,000 horsepower, a 4-foot-10-inch force.

As the text from my sister rolled in, I felt like she was sending answers to the SAT so I could ace the test: “Food usually calms her down. Try changing the subject or asking her questions like, have you milked a cow…”

There it was. Two pancakes later, and a detailed explanation of how she would spray milk directly into her mouth while milking, Mom was back. “You want fresh milk? THAT’S fresh milk,” she said emphatically.

54 minutes later, and we’re back in bed.

What I learned:

Daughtering is a verb.

The focus toggles between loving and languishing, admiring and administrating, memories and management.

While I need to remember to ensure Mom and Dad are hydrated, medicated, and rested, all must be connected to care and non-operational love.

A blessing.

Thanks for joining me.

I’m so glad you’re here,

Lucretia