A Perfect Day in Galveston: Treasure Hunting and a Dash of Panic

Today was one of those days that reminds me why life is an adventure. My friend, Bev LaRock, and I decided to soak up the gorgeous Galveston weather and enjoy a day out. With bright blue skies, warm winds, and a gentle sea breeze blowing across the Island, staying indoors simply wasn’t an option.  

Bev and I spent the morning walking up and down the Strand exploring bookstores and antique shops. I’ve been on the hunt for a new set of dishes and serving pieces because I parted with all my glassware while caring for Bill at home. Now that I’m settled in my new place, I’m re-discovering the joy of entertaining and looking to replace the plastics and Corelle dishes lining my cabinets. I had found some dishes I liked online, but I really wanted to support the local merchants. 

 

Just before lunch, we walked into this small antique shop in the middle of Galveston and found just what I was looking for! A complete set of eight place settings with extra cups and saucers. It also included a salt and pepper, a creamer, two gravy bowls, and a variety of serving dishes. The dishes are labeled, Hand Painted Vernon Florence, oven and dishwash safe. Made in California, USA! They are vintage Mid-Century, 1960s. This set is SO ME! The colors are bright and cheerful – they make me happy just looking at them. The price was right for me, so I was ready to make the purchase. 

 

Now here’s where things took a twist. The shop only accepts cash, debit, Venmo, or Zelle. I’m not one for carrying cash, so I used Zelle to pay. The owner wrapped up the dishes and promised to hold them while I fetched my car after we ate lunch.  

 

Bev and I then headed to Hearsay on the Strand – my latest favorite restaurant in Galveston. After our meal, I dropped Bev home so she could go do her volunteer gig at McDonald House. As she got out of the car, I realized I had no idea where I bought the dishes! I had no receipt and no contact information from the shop! My bank only had the owner’s name, not the shop name. And neither Bev nor I could recall exactly where we’d walked!

 

With a sinking feeling, I drove up and down Strand Street trying to spot the shop, but nothing looked familiar. Frustrated, I parked the car and continued the search on foot. Still nothing.

 

Just as a full panic threatened to take over, I had an “aha!” moment: my Apple watch had tracked my walk! Pulling up the Health app on my phone, I found the path we’d taken. No wonder I couldn’t find it - the shop wasn’t on Strand Street at all! We’d ventured several blocks away to the corner of Post Office and Kempner. I would have never found them without my Apple watch! 

 

Following the trail on my app, I finally found the shop and my new dishes, all wrapped and waiting for me. What a relief!  Now all I have to do is wash them up and find a place to store the extra pieces. Some will go in my closet for safekeeping, and the rest will be ready for my next get together. 

 

These dishes aren’t just tableware to me; they’re part of my journey, a bright and cheerful reminder of a beautiful day spent embracing my new life here on the Island.

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NOTE: I just looked up the price of these and found them online. I got a really good buy! I paid $300, tax included! 

A House to Remember (Memoir, written in October 2023)

 A House to Remember

By Cindy Downes

 

What do you get when you combine a World War II veteran, a 240-acre farm, and a prisoner of war barracks together? A home. That’s right - my childhood home for eighteen years. My dad, recently discharged from the army, purchased the barracks, moved it onto his family farm in Lewes, Delaware, and divided it into three sections. He used one piece for our house, one piece for a shop, and the remaining piece was used for the ends of the buildings and room dividers. 

This home of ours featured crumbly plaster walls, an asbestos roof, and rough-hewn wooden floors. It was rustic for sure, but we did have all the luxuries of life including electricity, water, heat, and an indoor toilet. 

 

When we needed water, we grabbed a bucket or two and carefully navigated down rickety wooden stairs to our basement below. We then headed over to the pitcher pump and gave it a few strokes. Instantly, we delighted with refreshingly cold spring water as it gushed up from our very own personal well. 

 

We were never concerned about cold winter nights in this cozy coastal dwelling. Our home had Big Bertha, a heating system like no other. Big Bertha was a 55-gallon oil drum, stacked horizontally on cement blocks and conveniently located in the corner of our main living area. To keep it spewing out its luxurious heat, we periodically chopped down an old tree from our woods, sawed it into two-foot pieces, opened the fabricated metal door of Big Bertha, and stacked the wood inside. Then, we fired it up, sat back, and got warm and toasty. We even cooked meals in Big Bertha using a sturdy, black, cast-iron pot with a lid. We enjoyed such delicacies as fresh vegetable soup, chicken and dumplings, and chunky beef stew. 

 

Another feature of our house was its indoor outhouse. There was no need for us to venture outside in the freezing snow or in the middle of a hurricane as our outhouse was in the basement. It consisted of a five-gallon bucket carefully placed under a booty-sized hole cut into the top of a red wooden box that sat over the bucket. The women of our house implored the menfolk to aim properly as the top of the bucket did get slimy now and then from inaccurately streamed liquid waste. Lucky for me, the job of emptying this innovative convenience was left to the boys. 

 

My dad was before his time when it came to creating our kitchen as it had a modern, open floor plan like the homes of today rather than the chopped up back kitchens that were common in the 40’s. He custom built a ten-foot-long table, along with matching benches, that he placed down the center of this kitchen. Not only did he create an abundance of space for dining and conversation, but he also enabled the women of the house to prepare the meals and socialize at the same time. We weren't stuck in a "back kitchen." I remember many good times around this table, especially when my relatives from New Jersey came to visit. We dined on Uncle Freddy's fresh caught fish and our own home-grown produce. Afterwards, we ladies would play pinochle for hours, at this table, while the men sat in the living room and smoked. 

 

Gradually, children were added to our household including my brother Randy in 1947; me in 1950, and my brother Keith in 1955. This meant two more bedrooms, one for my brothers and one for me. Neither of these bedrooms had doors; but when I got older, I created my own door from curtains I made. This was another unique aspect of our home. Unlike the women who lived in town, we didn’t have to drive to the nearest city 40 miles away to buy fabric. Instead, we could get all the fabric we needed from our chickens. Chicken feed, at that time, was sold in beautiful, floral-printed sacks. All I had to do was cut the sacks into appropriately sized pieces and then sew away on Grandma Wilson’s treadle sewing machine - a Singer, of course! Not only did I make curtains for my bedroom door from these sacks, but I also made clothes for myself that I wore to school. I may not have been the most fashionable student at school, but I did learn a marketable skill. I later used this skill to help fund my way through college at the University of Delaware. 

 

Our home continued “as is” until I turned twelve. That was the year of the Big Remodel. Gone was the indoor outhouse, gone was the pitcher pump, and gone was Big Bertha. Now, like the rest of the world we had a double sink in the kitchen with running tap water; a full bath with pink and green tile, a tub, sink, and flushing toilet; and an oil heater in the floor that warmed the whole house. And, best of all, no more trekking down rickety stairs to the basement. Everything was located on the main floor. 

I still remember the smell of the coffee I brewed for the men as they worked, the excitement I experienced as I flushed the new toilet, and the comfort I felt as I stood on the heating grate with the warm air billowing out my skirt like an umbrella on the beach. 

 

All these modern conveniences did provide us with a more comfortable home, but they never took away from its uniqueness. Not many people can say they grew up in a POW camp - at least, not by choice! 

Mental Health Matters

 I was so glad to see this article in Nice News about Simone Biles. Mental health does matter. And finally, people are beginning to see that it is not something to be shunned or locked up for, but instead, to be taken seriously. Thank you, Simone Biles, for standing up for yourself and all the rest of us who admit we need help. You're my hero! 

My 5-Minute Claim to Fame (Memoir, written 2017)

I cannot leave out an important moment in my life on this blog, even though it happened many many years ago. I was 57 years old and had decided to return to college. Bill had lost his vision by this time, but we didn't know he was going to develop Alzheimer's. Because of this, I decided it was time for me to add to the family income. 

Here is an article I wrote about "My Claim to Fame" back in 2017. 

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Claim to Fame – Cindy Downes

Marilyn Monroe once said, “Fame doesn't fulfill you. It warms you a bit, but that warmth is temporary.” I’ve never been famous like Marilyn Monroe, but judging from People magazine, this appears to be true.   

In my own life, I’ve tried to focus on achievement, rather than fame. And, as John Maxwell once said, “Without failure there is no achievement.” So fail I did! I was always trying something. It didn’t matter whether I succeeded or failed. It was the process that was the fun!

In school, I tried out and sometimes was selected for the lead in the school play. Other times, I ended up crying because all they wanted me to do was write a poem. I auditioned for and sometimes won the top spot in the high school band. Other times, I was lucky to have a seat at all. I competed in and won the American Legion’s National Oratorical contest three years in a row, but lost the 4^th time around.  

At the University of Delaware, I competed for the most dates! Although this is definitely not a claim to fame, it did land me a great husband!

As an adult, my achievements returned to the academic arena, and I was seldom satisfied to be “middle of the road.” I got a 4.0 in every class I took at Oklahoma State when I returned to college in 2007, I got a perfect score on my ham radio Extra exam (an exam that, I've been told, some engineers have trouble passing), and I won several Journalism awards when writing articles for local and national magazines.

In fact, writing became my passion – both in print and on the Internet. I wrote articles for magazines like iPhone Life, the Old Schoolhouse, and Oklahoma Living, but got paid very little. I wrote a picture book about “Garrett the Ferret, the White House Exterminator” and a children’s book called “Adventures at Spiro Mounds,” but even after landing a meeting with editors in NYC, neither one got published. Conversely, I wrote and self-published an educational resource book and two Oklahoma history manuals to help homeschool families. This effort provided me with nearly $100,000 in income; however, I’ve received very little fame from them. 

I also wrote about my everyday life and gave advice to moms using my websites and blogs. Most of it was ignored, but this online writing did land me a spot on OETA and another one on Good Morning America, my two biggest claims to fame. In my own family and circle of acquaintances, I am the “famous” one because I was on state and national TV; however, no one outside the family is begging me for my autograph! 

The bottom line is this: I’m not famous, but I keep trying to achieve something. Much of the time, it ends up a flop, but sometimes it’s worthwhile. It isn’t about fame; it’s the process. And to remind me to continue working the process, I keep a quotation on my wall that says, “Life is short. Run a marathon. Who cares if you come in last? Who cares? Just do it!” 

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Here is the video my brother, Dave, recorded on his TV. Without this, I would have no record of my 5-Minute Claim to Fame! 

Assignment from My Daughter

I complain a lot about being alone. My daughter, however, has been single all her life; so I asked her how she deals with it. It's not a problem for her at all. After going round and round for a while, she gave me an assignment: write down all the good things about living by myself. I decided to take her up on it, so here goes:

1. I only cook meals that I like.

2. I eat when I want to and don't eat if I don't want to.

3. I don't have to clean up someone else's messes: dishes, laundry, bathrooms, etc.

4. I sleep when I want to and get up when I want to.

5. I watch tv that I want to watch or watch none at all.

6. I decorate my place the way I choose.

7. I don't have to share drawers, closets, rooms, etc. 

8. I go on trips when and where I want.

9. I buy my own car, furniture, household supplies, food without anyone arguing about the style, size, color, price, etc.

10. I don't have to wait on someone when they're sick.

11. I don't have to "be quiet" because someone else doesn't like my piano playing or music blaring or anything else I do that makes noise. Bill hated noise.

12. I invite whomever I want for dinner and serve whatever I want to cook.

13. I wear what I want - even go braless if I want!

14. When I go out, I don't have to wait for someone to get ready or rush because someone's in a hurry.

15. I play games with friends; something I rarely did as a kid and never when Bill was home. 

16. I have plenty of free time to do what I want. 

17. I have "girls day/night out" or "gal overnights" - another thing I rarely did as a kid.

18. I enjoy new hobbies, activities, restaurants, outings; things my husband would never try.

So what are the bad things about living alone? I decided it was only fair if I made the opposite list, so here goes:

1. There is no one to talk to when I'm home alone. It's so quiet.

2. When I want to go out on an "adventure," I have to plan ahead; or, I have to go by myself. I miss our impulse activities. 

3. I was going to say I miss affection, but I never got affection. Nor do I give it very easily. So maybe that doesn't count. 

4. I don't like to be home alone during holidays especially. I usually have my kids on the actual holiday (which I'm lucky to have), but the days around it are very lonely. 

5. I miss someone giving me gifts - but then I realized that I always bought my own gifts, anyway He never went shopping. So this is not a valid point.

6. There is no one to tell me I look nice when I dress up. He did do that. 

Now that I look at both lists, I see there are many more advantages to being alone! I guess I should stop complaining and figure out ways I can solve the few problems that it makes for me. Thanks, Shelly!

My Anniversary and Being the "Other Woman"

Today (December 26) is my 54th wedding anniversary, so I delivered Bill his present, and my daughter, Shelly, prepared him a special dish. Wil, my son, accompanied me on the visit. Bill devoured the dish, which made me happy. The one thing we can still do for him is to bring him some special meals. 

He then asked about Wil's children (he has none) and then about mine. This segued into a rather heated "rant" about his ex-wife, whom he was planning to "kick" for her lack of visits.

Wil gently reminded him that I was his wife and a frequent visitor. Bill stared at me, bewildered, and said, "Really?" He clearly had no recollection of me. Perhaps he confused me with Shelly (who also has no kids). I fought to keep my tears from flowing, and redirect him to something else.

I knew this day was coming but it still came as a shock. Evidently, he no longer recognizes me, or at least not all of the time.

Later, over lunch with my son, we couldn't help but laugh. I mean, what else could we do? Now, I'm "the other woman" in his fading memories. I've heard this happens, but I sure didn't expect it today.

On a brighter note, Bill's new medication is working wonders. He's sleeping better and his arthritis has improved. Today, he moved his knees without yelling in pain. He looked better too. This makes me happy. So, despite the unexpected twist, I suppose it was a good day after all.

Assignment from my Therapist

December 20, 2024

Watching Bill go through the various stages of dementia is heartbreaking. In fact, I spend a good portion of my time in therapy crying about it. My therapist suggested I write about how I feel as a form of processing. So here goes . . .

At our age, arthritis is part of life; but, Bill doesn't understand that. He's always had an extremely low tolerance for pain, and he's also allergic to most pain medications. He doesn't understand why he hurts and why we can't make it go away. I feel heartbroken.

Bill is visually impaired with no central vision, so he continually asks for an appointment with the eye doctor. He doesn't understand that we've been there many times, and they've done everything they can to "fix" his eye. He just wants glasses so he can see. I feel incompetent.

Bill's reality continues to slip further away as the disease progresses, despite changes in medication. Some days when I visit, he tells me he is a famous star, and he's being hunted by paparazzi. Other days, he's working on imaginary jobs and having trouble with his "staff." He thinks people are out to get him and he's frightened. I feel powerless. 

He's overweight, his legs no longer work, and he's stuck in a wheelchair. He can't lift himself, so he has to be lifted by a machine to get out of bed or go to the bathroom. I hate hearing him cry out, "It hurts; it hurts" as they turn the wheel to get him upright. Why can't they make a better way to get him up and down? It reminds me of cattle strung up to be butchered. I feel angry.

The VA facility where Bill resides is excellent. It's spacious, super clean, and staffed better than most nursing homes. However, visiting Bill there still offers a grim preview of his future—a future I’m helpless to change. In the two years he's been there, I've watched residents in various stages of the disease come and go. Every week, I see visitors gently trying to coax their loved ones to eat, offering meals of lifeless, gray mush—meat and vegetables blended into a flavorless paste to avoid aspiration. I see residents slumped over in their wheelchairs, sleeping for hours at a time. The staff encourages them to move, to catch a ball, to sing a song, or to color on a sheet of paper. But they just keep sleeping . . .  I feel frightened.

Why can’t there be an easier way? We don't let our pets go through this. I wouldn’t let my dog, Oreo, suffer like this, but I can’t stop Bill from going through it. And if I could, would I make that decision? To end his life? It’s agonizing enough to make that decision for an animal. But, for my husband? I don’t think I could. I feel spineless . . . 

Missing Connections

December 17, 2024

As I was walking Oreo this morning, I snapped this picture of the fog blanketing Galveston. One building caught my eye – just barely peeking out of the dense mist surrounding it. The scene reminded me of how I’ve been feeling lately . . . disconnected, adrift, unseen.

I’m not having a great week. I don’t want to go see Bill. I want to forget I'm married. I want to pretend I'm a normal 75-year-old widow trying to live out the rest of my life. But I can't.

My therapist says I'm searching for "connection." And it’s true. Like the building in that photo, my connection to Bill feels severed but not completely. It’s like an electric cord that has been chewed on by rodents. It sparks now and then, but no electricity runs through. I'm desperately searching for a source of "power,” but all I find is emptiness. 

Some days, this emotional roller coaster feels unbearable, other days not so much. Today, I’m feeling angry, sad, and guilty, as well as mad at myself and feeling very ungrateful. Eventually, I’ll get over it and act “normal,” whatever that means.

In the meantime, I need to figure out how to get my “power" back, despite the circumstances. Back to my therapist! Until then, I'll sit at my piano. Like David playing for Saul, I’ll play to soothe my restless, tormented soul. 

Increasing Bill's Rx

Bill has been getting more and more agitated and paranoid these last two months. I was planning to talk to the staff tomorrow to ask them if it's time to adjust his meds again. However, I just now got a phone call from them. The psychiatrist saw Bill today and has decided it's time to up Bill’s Rx, again.

I'm so glad they are on top of it. I have been struggling watching him get more and more agitated the last few weeks. His ramblings have gotten wilder and wilder from paparazzi coming after him to looking for missing children. He's also gotten into verbal tussles which have almost ended in a physical fight, had the nurses not intervened. This is the kind of behavior that put him in the psych ward last year. 

I'm so thankful for the VA Memory Care. How would I do this without them? I am so lucky to have this service. My heart just breaks for all the spouses (and children) out there who are taking care of their loved ones with Dementia and do not have the means to obtain help. We have got to find a solution . . .

Pearl Harbor Remembered, An Interview With my Father, James Luther Edwards

On this day, the anniversary of the Pearl Harbor attack on December 7, 1941, I wanted to share an interview with my dad, who was stationed there during the bombing. This interview was originally published by the Delaware State News in 1985. My dad passed away in 2005. 

It begins like this:

"It was early in the morning on Dec. 7, 1941. James L Edwards, then a 28-year-old soldier stationed just outside of Pearl Harbor with the 65th Combat Engineers, decided to go for a swim."

Two Years and Counting . . .

This month, Bill has been in memory care for two years! I can't believe it's been that long. We had a "good" day today. He was glad to see me and very happy that I brought him homemade lasagna! We had a nice visit and he was mostly aware of what was going on. He did really good in exercise class with his arms; his legs, no.

I actually got to see them use the lift on him, today. I had never seen it in action before. They roll him up to it, fasten a belt-like thing (which is hooked to the machine) around his back, and then turn it on. The machine does the work. Because he is such a big man, no one can help him get up and down now. You can see the machine - it's the blue piece of equipment.

The sad thing is, that with arthritis in his knees and hips, it hurts him when the machine pulls him up. So he began yelling, "ouch, ouch, ouch" as it pulled him up. I know it's a necessity, but it was so sad to see him like that. Hateful disease . . .