quiltersmuse.com Blog

Americans are consumers and “consuming” is good for the economy. Tomorrow, the annual tradition of celebrating “Black Friday” will occur. That is the day after Thanksgiving when some people will rush to the stores to take advantage of sales offered by retailers, in the hope of helping their businesses to end the year in the “black,” rather than the “red.” Great discounts will be offered on computers and electronics and probably other things for those willing to get up very early and arrive at stores well before the crack of dawn.

I feel liberated. We do not get very involved with the consumer aspect of Christmas. Jim and I do not even buy gifts for each other. We tried doing that, years ago, but it always was just an exercise in frustration. We both prefer to pick out our own clothes, I’m allergic to fragrances, and I do not wear much jewelry. Furthermore, in lieu of exchanging expensive items during the holidays, we decided to give each other permission to buy whatever we want, all during the year. I am happy with purchase of books or fabrics or textiles. Neither of us is extravagant, and the decision to buy anything is weighed carefully. That agenda works for us.

Needless to say, tomorrow morning, you will not find me at a mall. In fact, you may not see me shopping anywhere, during the entire holiday season. I can buy whatever I want online or on eBay. That suits me just fine! I also plan to make some gifts.

As always, I will purchase a few gifts because it is a joy to give someone you love something you think they will like. Every year, it is becoming more difficult to figure out what to give that won’t be a duplicate, and that will be welcomed into someone else’s home.

One wonders what to send to people who are far away. Would they appreciate a calendar, or do they already have five of them for next year? Would they like candy or chocolates, or are they on a diet? Would they like a quilt, or would it not quite match their decor? Should music be sent or would it be the kind of music they like? The situation gets to be a crazy one that is very mindboggling.

Not to sound like Scrooge, but it would not hurt my feelings to receive nothing. You’ve got it. Nothing. Nothing except good wishes and possibly time spent. As one gets older, one realizes that “time” is all that life really is. Time is a gift we give. Time is an irreplaceable commodity. Every minute of our life is already predetermined in the Book of Life, and we know not when our last breath will be taken. Phone calls and visits are appreciated. They are a gift of time.

As a recipient of time, there’s no need to feed it, stroke it, or save it for a rainy day. You have to use it now. Funny how the human mind goes. We always think that when we take our leave of someone, we will see that person again. The final gift my brother every gave me was to stop by on Christmas Eve with a box of pecan turtles because he knew that I like them. I never saw him alive again. His thoughtfulness and his gift of time is what I will remember the most, whenever I think of him at all. That includes the long telephone conversation, just before he died of a massive heart attack. That night, he seemed so reluctant to hang up the phone. Now, I have an inkling why. He was sharing the last bit of his life with me.

Anyone can spend money. Consider giving the gift of your time to someone you know, or even someone you don’t know. Volunteer at a soup kitchen, a hospital, or a nursing home. There are so many good things to do with time. Save your money. This holiday season, give an irreplaceable commodity, your TIME.

Patricia Cummings

My mother when she was 21.

At 12:19 a.m., I cannot get to sleep. I am thinking about my mother. Most of the time now, I do not think of her. With the holidays fast approaching, there is a lot to remember. Tonight I am considering the phenomena of love and loss. If one never loves, then there is nothing to lose. I lost my mother long before she actually departed this mortal life. In fact, I can tell you about the exact night that I felt that reality.

Mom had been experiencing a period of declining health. She was living alone, by her own choice, although we had tried to help her to relocate into a more sensible living situation than an 89 acre farm and a hard-to-maintain rambling farmhouse. Little did we know that she had spent all of her assets, save $16.00 in her checking account. She owed back taxes and had accumulated massive credit card debts to buy groceries and other basic necessities. She was always so private about her finances, we had no inkling that she had fallen on such dire times.

She did not know what to do. I received a call at 4:30 a.m. one morning. Even that was too early an hour to be called for substitute teaching. I knew something was up. The medics told me that my mother had experienced a cardiac infarction and that they would be transporting her by ambulance to the nearest hospital. As it turned out, she had bleeding ulcers, too. In the hospital, she started acting a little strange. The doctors determined that she had a urinary tract infection. That, in the elderly, can bring on symptoms of dementia.

They treated the UTI and her mental outlook did seem to improve. She was sent to a nursing home but there, she continued to act up. She was well enough to be unreasonable, demanding, and accusatory of poor care. I took her home with me. She started acting a little crazy here, and really had me concerned the day that she locked herself in the bathroom for hours. When she finally emerged, we found that she had been lighting matches and throwing them on the (wood) floor, a major fire hazard in this old house.

Bumblebee on Rhododendron. We seek the beauty in life, especially when all else fails.

She had a doctor appointment that afternoon. I helped her to get ready for that, and once there, she could not understand that she needed to keep some of her clothes on. The doctor found her to be unmanageable and refused to see her, as she could not follow instructions and was very agitated. We were told her to bring her to the emergency room and again, it was determined that a urinary tract infection was the source of her behavioral problem. After that, we brought her home again.

By nightfall, I was a nervous wreck. She would not settle down, and as we sat on the couch together, alone in the dark, I started to cry. She had no inkling why. I did. At that very moment, it hit me that I had totally lost her, and that she had irretrievably lost her mind.

There was no way she could remain in my home. The guest room was on the second floor and with her osteoporosis, she found it very difficult to climb stairs. Our bathtub was impossible for her to use as we do not have a shower in this antique home. Most of all, the responsibility was overwhelming.

So, unfortunately, she was in and out of a number of nursing homes. In one of them, there were also male patients on her unit, and when she would not keep a stitch of clothing on, I was told that she was going to be transferred to a gero-psych unit at a hospital across the state.

Barely was she admitted when a doctor went into her room and asked her to go with him to another (examination) area. Alarmed and frightened, she pulled away from him, and in so doing, she landed on her head and as a result, suffered friction burns from the carpet. When I saw her next, she had bruises all over her face and a black eye. To save her life, she had been whisked away to the emergency room in Hanover, NH. I was told that she  suffered bleeding inside her brain and that the diagnosis was now Vascular Dementia.

She lived for quite awhile after that scare. I had the responsibility of selling the farm, and with the proceeds of that transaction, she was able to have a nice room in a special home for dementia patients. That initial room overlooked a flower garden and had its own bathroom. When her money ran out, and she had to go on state aid, she was put in with a series of roommates but she could not get along with anyone.

Eventually, she was placed in a room in which there was no window and that really bothered her. The room was located down a hall where no one went, except at meal time. She was having difficulty getting to the bathroom, trying to navigate, first with a walker, and then, with a wheelchair. She became more and more depressed and despondent, and very agitated when she saw us. Somehow, it seemed that she was resentful that we could not take care of her at our home. She had another heart attack in 2005 and she passed away.

I am finally getting to the point where I can recall some of the humorous things she did and said. I am finally reaching a time when I can remember her good qualities and the days when she did not have so many medical issues. If any of you have a parent or loved one with mental illness, it may be helpful to concentrate on how that person was, in better days. In the long run, the good times are what you will choose to remember most often.

My mother was always a difficult person. Even though we all loved her, she found that love difficult to accept or to acknowledge. I am amazed when I see photos of her as a child and as a lovely young woman. She looked so sweet. She was a lot sweeter, I think, when my Dad was alive. She became embittered at losing him at such a relatively young age (63).

I like to think of the times when my parents kidded around, and when my Dad would sing love songs to my mother. I enjoy remembering the fun they had on trips they would take. They enjoyed simple things, like camping, and especially liked it when their (first born) grandchildren could join them. I recall my mother baking pies and cakes and Stollen, an Austrian sweetbread.

I feel nostalgic when I call to mind the mental image of her picking up autumn leaves to press between sheets of wax paper. She would dry them by placing them in her huge dictionary that she used for helping to solve crossword puzzle. Then, she’d mail the leaves to distant relatives who had moved out of New England.

Any holiday would be a time to really celebrate! She would send cards, buy gifts, cook special meals, and otherwise see that everyone enjoyed the day as much as she. There was a lot to like about my mother. Being a daughter, naturally, there was also a lot to dislike. In the end, I guess we have to do ourselves a favor and try to remember the good times more often than the conflicts. Yet, the bad times have their own lessons to teach.

I shall again miss both of my parents, as well as other family members who can no longer sit at the dinner table to share a holiday meal. We can only hope that they have found their eternal rest and a “peace that surpasseth all understanding.”

Time eases all things. Sophocles

Patricia Cummings

Today, I have added to our website the second of a series of articles that feature quilt blocks and other textiles made to honor presidents and famous wanna-bees. This time, the focus is on just one person: William Henry Harrison. If one listened to his presidential opponent, incumbent Martin van Buren, Harrison lacked both education and class. That was simply not true and some of the quilt blocks diminished those charges by making fun of them, as would a good cartoon.

A “Harrison Rose” block, in the process of being hand quilted.

What I love about political quilt blocks is that they gave women a voice, at a time when they had no vote. After 1920, when women first were allowed to vote in the U.S., the tradition of making quilt blocks with a political bent simply continued.

While revisiting this article that I’d first put together more than three years ago, I began thinking about the political process in this country. I am struck by the fact that many of our nation’s leaders previously served in the military.

Our first president, George Washington, did so. Teddy Roosevelt and his “Rough Riders,” served during wartime in 1898, and Dwight D. Eisenhower distinguished himself during World War II. Harrison was known for fighting the Indians at Tippecanoe. In fact, the campaign slogan, “Tippecanoe and Tyler, too,” has a catchy ring to it.

In choosing those who have held military leadership positions, perhaps the voters think that their loyalty, love of country, and abilities as warriors, makes them apt candidates for the presidency.

Politics are ever intriguing, and though we may have a slightly imperfect system, we make a stab at fairness and the continuation of a democratic process of elections.

I hope you enjoy the article: Quilted Tributes to William Henry Harrison, Our Ninth President.

Patricia Cummings

I once heard about a man in a large city who made a daily habit of reading the obituary column. Each day, he would dress up in his finest clothes and attend as many funeral services as he could. Usually, he would seek older people to honor with his presence. Most often, that would mean that others in attendance were so few, they would be swallowed up by the enormity of a huge cathedral or church.

The services were usually short. After all, old Uncle Willy had outlived most of humankind who had known him, or he had been such a recluse for the last 35 years that those gathered were more interested in the size of any potential endowment than in wishing him well on his last journey. The same situation would stand for old Aunt Matilda. She was always a little “dotty,” at best, but her behavior had become so bizarre in recent years, the relatives really avoided her. Still they hoped against hope that she had remembered them in her will.

The man who visited church services was there on a mission. He would wander into the building a few minutes late, and creep into a back pew, waiting for just the right moment to spring into action. He had a deep voice, one that would resonate throughout the cavernous interior, echoing better than an opera singer whose voice has been magnified.

When the service was complete, he would leap to his feet. He would begin to speak, slowly at first, and then with more conviction. He would point out that he had been a dear friend of the deceased. He would recount the person’s finer attributes, and say that everyone in attendance should be aware of the marvelous and wonderful, if not astounding accomplishments that the person had kept hidden.

He would emphatically state that the kind soul had founded an orphanage, had purchased Christmas toys for the “needy,” or would impart whatever other tall tale came to mind.

By the time he finished speaking, those listening would be in complete awe of the feats of their deceased acquaintance or loved one, and then the man would simply rush out of the church. He had no need to hobnob with those left behind to grieve or not grieve! He had gone out of his way to validate someone’s life by ascribing to them more success than they ever accomplished in life. In so doing, he had performed a worthy task. Doing these daily acts became his reason to live.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

There are some inherent lessons to be learned from the story. First of all, even though the back pew visitor was, in essence, fabricating stories, he was doing so for a noble purpose. He felt justified in his quixotic quest to attribute significance to every life, especially those forgotten, abandoned souls.

Perhaps the true message of the story is that we should honor people while they are still present. We should seek to know about the loves, the wishes, and the successes of our loved ones, instead of waiting for someone else to tell us about their triumphs, real or imagined, after the person is no longer present.

To me, it seems that the man who constantly showed up was doing so out of love. The end result is that the person who had died was elevated in the minds of the funerals attendees by the man’s faux esteem for the deceased party. Too bad that the timing of the accolades is that they occurred only on the last day of the person’s earthly presence.

Now, dear reader, I will leave you with a question. Did the end justify the means?

Patricia Cummings

Though the details and the retelling of this story are my own, the original story, either real or imagined, is one that I read or heard, some time ago. Unfortunately, I have no recollection as to who set forth the story line. If I knew, I would certainly provide more information. Anyone is free to contact me at pat@quiltersmuse.com, if said source is known. Thanks.

America is a country of pills. Just watch television for even an hour and you will see many ads for new medications. After being told that a certain new pill might keep you from wetting the bed, but can also have the side effects of making you go blind, permanently crippling all of your fingers, and rendering you unable to walk again, the final sentence of the ad is always: “Ask your doctor if “such and such a drug name” is right for you! Right! I think I’ll call the clinic right now to inquire! “Not.”

Not? Yes, “not.” Whenever I call “my” clinic, the phone is customarily answered with, “I’m with another patient. Can you hold?” Usually, thinking that it would be seen as an act of aggression to just hang up, I dutifully wait on the line, wondering 1) why they think I need to hear the same message about diabetes no less than fifteen times, or 2) why they think that I might be remotely interested in the number of foreign-trained physicians that have been added to the staff, and their difficult-to-remember names.

Then, there are the “questionable” treatments. I wonder just how long cavemen did live, without the intervention of anti-cholesterol medicine, hormone replacement therapy, thyroid treatment pills, and all the rest of the pills that some of us take on a daily basis.

There is no end to the number of pills that are prescribed, and they are usually the newest, and the most expensive. Every time I see anyone in the medical field, yet another pill is prescribed. During one of the last jolly jaunts to see a “healer,” I had to suffer through the silly man telling me that I am overweight. Yes, any woman who tops 200 lbs. is definitely a little chubby. Pardon me, I meant to say, “Rubenesque.” The term “morbidly obese” was never applied directly to me … until now. I guess he subscribes to the theory of the “She’s Too Fat For Me” Polka. “Hey!”

I had the delusion that I was somewhat “cute” before I was subjected to tubes being shoved up my nose and down my throat, to discover “nothing.” I recoiled at the suggestion that I should come back again in six weeks to repeat the procedure, either because 1) I am totally crazy, after all, or 2) his son wants a new Porsche … bad, or 3) his wife is waiting for that vacation to Aruba. Then he prescribed an expensive pill, but admonished me to see two other doctors before taking any of them because with a pre-existing heart condition, this pill might have detrimental side effects, as in possibly causing my demise (??). The fat woman held onto her wallet … tight!

I bet that cavemen did not live as long as we do, given the woolly mammoth’s predisposition toward eating humans. Sorry. I’m kidding! I really don’t know what that beast ate, nor if men even inhabited the same time zone.

All I can safely say is that many of the “medical interventions” to which I, or other people I know, have been subjected, were detrimental either mentally or physically, and often involved some kind of legal chemical use.

For example, someone I know had developed a problem with gout after his physician told him to drink one glass of red wine per day, and to take an aspirin to lower his cholesterol and thin his blood. Come to find out, both of those items can cause the painful form of arthritis that usually shows up in the extremities (toes are often the target area where the pain and swelling occurs). Since giving up the use of both wine and aspirin, he has since been gout-free.

Another woman was prescribed cholesterol medication. She developed knee pain. Within two days of going off the pills, she was completely pain-free, but reports being left with lingering knee damage.

Don’t let “them” fool you! Medicine is a guessing game and not an exact science. The doctors try this and try that, usually by way of a pill, and if the treatment doesn’t cause the end of your life, then your life might improve.

Sounds like I’m disenchanted with doctors, pills, and their chances for failure. Actually, for the most part, doctors are doing the best they can, with all of their human and staffing limitations. They actually do some good, at times. Other times, they do harm. Their inaccessibility (forget house calls!), their hurried schedules, and the fact that they jump to conclusions, on first sight, do nothing to enhance the patient/doctor relationship.

All of this drug use in America really scares me. Might it not be better for all of us to take more responsibility toward our own health? To become more informed is the first step. The man with the gout solved his problem by reading about his condition online. Doctors can’t know everything. The health care system in this country needs fixing, but maybe the issue is not how to make it “more affordable.” Perhaps we need to make health care virtually unnecessary, by living healthier lives.

Patricia Cummings