Typing: From Yesterday to Today (Memoir)

Being the practical person that I am, I took typing and shorthand classes in high school alongside my college preparatory courses. After all, these were essential skills for women in the ’60s, and I wanted to make sure I could get a job. I learned to type on a manual typewriter, probably a Royal or a Smith-Corona, and by the time I graduated, I could type over 60 words per minute with 95% accuracy.

Learning to type was a smart decision. Although I did go to college, I left in my junior year to get married. While my husband was in Vietnam, I started my working career as a typist for the DuPont Company in Newark, Delaware. The job came with a good salary, great benefits, and even financial assistance to help me finish my degree; much better than working at McDonalds!

What I didn’t expect was the quirky challenge that came with the job: every document had to be typed using five different colored sheets of paper stacked together. On top was white bond paper with the DuPont header, followed by lemon yellow, mint green, pastel pink, and sky blue. Oh, and don’t forget the carbons in between, making a total of nine sheets! I affectionately call this The DuPont Sandwich.

A typical day at work went like this: 

I roll my paper sandwich into the Smith-Corona Electra and begin typing. Click, click, click—my fingers fly across the keys at a steady pace. I swipe the carriage return back to the left, over and over, making excellent progress. This is a piece of cake, I say, mentally patting myself on the back.

Then—the inevitable happens. I make a mistake.

Fixing an error on the DuPont Paper Sandwich is no simple task. Among my arsenal of office supplies sit five bottles of Wite-Out (correcting fluid), one for each paper color: white, lemon yellow, mint green, pastel pink, and sky blue. Without removing the stack of papers from the typewriter, I carefully separate each layer and paint over the mistake with the corresponding color. First the white, then the lemon yellow, mint green, pastel pink, and finally, the sky blue. And in between each layer, I wait for the Wite-Out to dry. Once the process is complete, I carefully roll the pages to the spot where I left off and resume typing, hoping the next error is far down the page.

Later, as a stay-at-home mom, I continued to type, mostly letters—something humans did before email and texting. Mistakes remained a hassle to fix; but, thankfully, I needed only one color of Wite-Out - white. No carbons for me!

Then came the '80s when Apple introduced a home computer called the Macintosh. I was sure I had died and gone to heaven. The machine fixed the mistakes before printing, using something called software! No more Wite-Out and time-consuming corrections! 

Image created with DALL-E

In the '80s, my days went like this: 

Tap, tap, tap—my fingers dance across the keyboard as I compose my latest letter. The keys barely make a sound, and there is no carriage return to swipe. In fact, my hands never leave the keyboard, which enables me to type even faster. Tap, tap, tap—my steady pace climbs to 97 words per minute with 95% accuracy.
Then—the inevitable happens. I make a mistake.

 No problem! I simply press the backspace key, hit delete, retype the correct letter, and move on. Now, this is the life! 

The years passed, and I was sure that word processing technology had peaked. Then, 2024 arrived bringing ChatGPT, artificial intelligence or AI for short, to the general public.

Now my days can go something like this: 

Scratch, scratch, scratch. On a mint green Post-it Note, I pencil in a few ideas for a time travel novel with my dog, Oreo, as the protagonist. I input the ideas into my favorite AI, and poof! Within seconds, out comes a fully written, grammatically correct 90,000 word novel!  

I had prompted the AI make my book sound like Steven King wrote it. But after reading a few pages, I change my mind, "Let's imitate the style of H. G. Wells," I prompt the AI. In seconds, it spits out the new version. "Much better," I say after reading the top page. 

I then ask the AI to create an image for the cover, a poem for the introduction, and a video to advertise my book on YouTube. Within minutes, AI has created my New York Times "Best Seller," Oreo's Time Machine: Paws, Portals, and Pandemonium written by Cindy Downes. 

Sure, it makes mistakes. I've caught many of its so-called "hallucinations" (a polite way of saying it just makes stuff up). You can't trust it, completely - yet. But soon, it will be more accurate than humans.

No more typing classes. No more paper sandwiches. No more Wite-Out. 

Will we even need humans anymore? Only time will tell. . . 

-----------------

Author's Note: As you have probably guessed, I used exaggeration when describing the process of writing a novel with AI. It takes a bit more effort than that. However, it is possible to create a complete book and it's being done, today. 

In answer to the question, "Did you use AI to write this memoir?" No, I did not; however, I did use it to tighten up sentence structure in a few paragraphs and added the word "hallucinations" as suggested by AI. I mostly use AI as a thesaurus, spell check, grammar check, all in one. Not to write memoirs and nonfiction. 

I do use AI as a creative tool. It's super fun to get ideas for fictional characters, dialogue, setting and plot. I also use it when teaching for ideas of topics and to create an outline. And because I'm not an artist, I use it to create images, like the one above. As time goes on and AI gets better, I'll probably use it more. For now, it's too unpredictable to depend on. 

The Long Goodbye (Memoir)

They don’t call Alzheimer’s “The Long Goodbye” for nothing. 

Yesterday, after visiting Bill, I returned to my empty house. Shortly after, the phone rang. It was the Activity Director from the Veteran’s Home asking for details about Bill’s life to include in a biography they were compiling for each resident. As I shared his accomplishments, she marveled at all he had done. Of course, she couldn’t have known. How could she? The man she sees now is a shadow of who he once was.

Bill no longer knows where he is, why he’s there, or the people around him. He can’t walk, use a TV remote, or make a simple decision. One day, he’s lost in psychosis; the next day, he’s gripped by depression; followed by days of restless anxiety. An unending cycle of “hell on earth.” 

After the call, I began looking through photos of Bill, tracing our life together from the early years of our marriage until now. That’s when my next “funeral” began. 

Lined up in chronological order, the pictures painted a vivid picture of his slow, painful decline. A once-strong, healthy, highly educated, multi-talented man, now lost to the cruel grip of dementia. '

To the rest of the world, Bill is alive. His body breathes, his name is on our bills, and his income arrives each month. But the Bill I married died years ago. 

Grief crashes over me in sobs as I mourn him, all over again. But this funeral is different. There are no friends gathered in remembrance, no kind words spoken about what a remarkable man he was, no shared meals, no arms wrapped around me in comfort. It’s just me, alone, grieving the loss of the man I love.

I cry until I have no more to give. Then, I put the photos away, wash my tear-streaked face, and change my top, damp from sobbing. It’s time to live my life; the life of a “widow in waiting.” I have survived another “funeral” alone, but it won’t be the last one.

Because with Alzheimer’s, the goodbye never comes all at once. It comes in waves, stretching endlessly across time, until there is nothing left to lose.

That is the reality of “The Long Goodbye.” 

NOTE: If you know someone going through The Long Goodbye, give them an extra hug this week. They probably need it.

Making Musical Memories

“The itsy-bitsy spider went up the waterspout, down came the rain and washed the spider out,” sang my new birthday doll as I watched in amazement. Standing two-foot tall, she had a small door in her back with a tiny record player inside. I placed a disc into the player and the doll came to life. 

This is my earliest memory of music – a moment of pure wonder. I’ve since searched the internet, hoping to find that doll again, but no luck. Maybe it was real, or maybe it was just a dream. I may never know.

Growing up on a farm without television, most of our days were filled with chores, schoolwork, and tending the fields. We had no television. I don’t remember listening to a radio. We did have an old Victrola that my dad would play occasionally, but those moments were rare.

My true introduction to music came in fourth grade when I met a new friend, Carolyn, who played both the flute and the piano. She sparked my interest in music and before long, I found myself wanting to learn an instrument. I asked my parents if I could take piano lessons, but that was out of the question. We couldn’t afford lessons, let alone a piano. Then, my school’s music teacher, Mr. Henry, suggested I try the clarinet. The school would loan it to me, and my parents could pay for it over time. The lessons were free as part of the music education program.  

I’ll never forget the first time I put together my clarinet, a sleek, ebony-black, Bundy model. I can still feel the smooth, hollow, wooden pieces as I carefully greased the corks and slid the barrel, joints, and bell together to assemble the instrument. I can still feel the shiny-metal keys, cool against my fingertips, as I press the key, trying to play a note. I even recall the distinct taste of the wooden reed as I soaked it in my mouth, getting it ready to play. These sensations are forever etched in my mind.

For the next eight years, I practiced diligently under Mr. Henry’s guidance. Over time, I earned the coveted position of First Chair in our school band. I was also selected to play in the County Band and the State Band. This gave me a sense of great pride. I had hoped it would make my dad proud, too; but he never came to my concerts. Nor do I ever remember him saying anything positive about my playing.

There were those who appreciated my music - the three sisters, Nora, Laura, and Ida, who lived together in the farmhouse across the street. Whenever I had free time, I’d walk over with my clarinet and entertain them with a “concert.” 

Over time, the clarinet became my escape, as well. It carried me away from the dust and grime of farm life to a world I could only dream about—a world filled with classical melodies and Broadway tunes. A world in which I could excel if I pushed myself. And push myself I did.

Each fall, I would audition again for First Seat in the clarinet section. This was never a problem for the first three years of high school. Of course, I would be First Seat. I was the best! I practiced the hardest and the longest. No one else could come close. Until . . . Roger Martin. I remember the day like it was yesterday. . . 

As I rushed down the hallway towards the band room, my loafers clicked sharply on the linoleum floor, and my clarinet case thump-thumped against my thigh. The familiar sounds of Bach’s Minuet in G. drifted through the air. “Crap, I’m late,” I muttered, picking up my pace and silently scolding myself for not getting here sooner. 

 

Roger Martin, my competition, was already auditioning. I paused outside the door, listening as the notes from his clarinet glided up and down the octaves with ease, his reed vibrating in rich, resonant tones. A year younger than me, Roger had been gunning for my First Seat ever since he joined the band. 

 

As I stepped into the room, I could feel his clarinet taunting me, like it knew I was unprepared. And why am I unprepared? Because I finally had a boyfriend - Ted. 

 

Ted was new at my school, tall, lean, and extremely intelligent. In fact, his goal was to be an astronaut. That weekend, we had had our first date, and it ended with my first kiss. Since then, I couldn’t stop thinking about his dreamy, blue eyes, framed in long, charcoal-brown lashes, looking at me like I was his mom’s apple pie. 

 

Mr. Henry launched into lavish praise of Roger’s audition as I flopped down into my seat. I quickly assembled my clarinet and began licking the hard, dry reed – another reminder of how unprepared I was. I played through a few scales to warm up, the notes feeling clumsy and rushed, as Roger calmly packed up his clarinet and walked out the door. 

 

Mr. Henry was a tall, thin man, with a bald head that gleamed as if it had been freshly waxed. I think he was in his late 40s, though his hands trembled slightly, making him seem older. 

 

“Are you ready for your audition, Cindy?” Mr. Henry asked, bringing me back to the present. 

 

I felt my face burn hot and red. “Can he read my mind? Does he know I haven’t practiced all week because all I can think about is Ted?” I didn’t answer him. Instead, I nervously licked my reed and blew. It squeaked out one of those annoying Clarinet screeches, but I pushed on. 

 

Mr. Henry tapped my hand lightly as my pinky finger hung too high over the key. “Don’t start drinking British tea,” he gently reminded me-a phrase he used numerous times to correct my technique. The notes continued to stumble out, one after another until, after three, excruciating minutes, the piece finally ended. 

 

I glanced down at the saliva dripping from the bell of my clarinet onto my pleated skirt, then looked up to meet Mr. Henry’s eyes. The disappointment on his face said everything. His hands shook more than usual, and he didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. I was no longer First Chair.  

 

I was disappointed in myself. I had let Mr. Henry down - and, of course, my dad. The words, “You can’t do anything right!” echoed relentlessly in my mind, a cruel reminder that I had just proved him right. All I wanted now was to escape - escape from my mistakes, my failures, and the heavy weight of unfulfilled expectations. I continued playing in the band, as second seat; but when I graduated high school that year, I put my clarinet down and never picked it up again.  

 

During the late 60’s, I discovered the rock and roll tunes from the 50s and 60s that I had missed growing up; icons like Elvis Presley, the Beatles, and the Beachboys. Pretty Woman, Dancing Queen, and Ain’t No Mountain High Enough filled my dorm room. These tunes fed my need to be loved, to belong, and to simply have fun. A favorite tune from this time was Mustang Sally sung by Wilson Pickett.

 

One of my clearest memories of this time is when I worked at a clothing store in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, in between college semesters. It was there I met, Molly, a co-worker who owned a red mustang. I remember riding in the passenger seat of her Mustang, cruising up and down Rehoboth Boulevard, passing by the Bandstand over and over again, the sound of the Atlantic surf crashing on the sand, the smell of Dolly’s Caramel Corn drifting down from the Boardwalk, and Mustang Sally blasting from the radio for all to hear. It was pure exhilaration! 

 

In the 1970s, I married, spent a year waiting for Bill to return from Vietnam and worked at DuPont Company. During that time, I continued to listen to songs of the 60’s and 70s.  

 

It wasn’t until the late 70s, when I was a new mom, that I returned, briefly, to making my own music. I bought a classical guitar and began taking lessons. For a year, I practiced and genuinely enjoyed the process. I thrived on the challenge of plucking the six nylon strings with my blistered fingertips to create beautiful classical “masterpieces.” But after a series of moves, my life grew busier, and once again, I set my music aside.

 

During the 80s and 90s, my music tastes shifted. I raised my kids on gospel music with bands like Carmen (Gods Got an Army), Petra (Occupy), and DeGarmo and Key (Destined to Win. This music fed my need for purpose (saving the world) and accomplishment. Although I didn’t create any of this music myself, it motivated me to accomplish a great deal. I homeschooled my children K-12^th grade, founded a nonprofit education center with more than 100 families enrolled, organized and led three teams of junior and senior high school students to entertain at nursing homes, taught 40 preschoolers every Sunday and Wednesday for 20 years, spoke at homeschooling seminars, and self-published four educational books that sold all over the United States and even in other countries. 

 

But that era ended. I left the church in 2008 because of theological differences. I dissolved the education center I had founded and became a caregiver for my husband, who was now legally blind. My children were grown, living in different parts of the country, and I was looking for some new accomplishments. I decided to go back to school and finish my college degree. 

 

I graduated at age 59 (2009) with a degree in Journalism and spent the next few years as a freelance writer. I also taught at a local private school as I continued to care for Bill. He was beginning to show signs of dementia; so, in 2014, I sold our home and moved us into independent living so I could continue to work. There was no music in our home during this time.

 

I didn’t revisit music again until 2024, the year I turned 74. I had moved to Galveston Island, off the Texas coast, to be near my daughter, Shelly. Bill’s Alzheimer’s had advanced to the point that I needed help with his care. Eventually, I had to place him into Memory Care, and I found myself home alone. With time on my hands, I realized it was the perfect moment to rekindle my passion for music. 

 

On a whim, I bought an inexpensive keyboard at Sam’s Club and resolved to teach myself how to play the piano. After a few months of struggling through self-instruction, I realized I needed more help, so I hired a piano teacher, James Johnson.

 

James reminds me of Mr. Henry, but he’s a more youthful version. He’s patient, encouraging, and focused on helping me improve my technique. It’s been a challenge for me to transition from reading and playing the notes on the treble clef to reading and playing the bass clef notes as well. My older brain often stumbles, asking, “Is this C or E? They look the same!” I end up spending so much time counting up the staff lines that my timing slows down too much. 

 

Physically, it’s more of a challenge now, as well. My short, arthritic thumbs make it difficult to cross “under” in order to move up the scale. I’ve had to learn to pivot more and “hop” up the scale! And use a lot of Ben-gay!

 

The songs in the Alfred’s Piano Level 1 aren’t my favorite genre, either. Most of them are old folk tunes, while I am drawn more to classical music. So, while James is “out of sight,” I purchase books from Wunderkeys. These exercises sound more like classical music; so, they motivate me to practice more! 

 

Each week, when James comes for my lesson, I play from Alfred and I also play from Wunderkeys. With his instruction and my diligent practice, the results have been positive. I am beginning to feel “accomplished” again!  

 

After a year of playing, I rewarded myself with an upgraded Roland keyboard tucked into a sleek, black stand that now holds a place on honor in my living room. In fact, when I moved to my new apartment, I based my entire decorating scheme around it. My living room is now a blend of black, gold, and white!

When I return home after a day with friends, running errands, or learning something new at OLLI’s, I find myself sitting at my piano, creating my own music. Sometimes, I imagine myself in a symphonic orchestra, feet tapping softly as the Maestro’s baton sweeps through the air, signaling my moment to play. I wonder, “Can my dad hear me now? Would he approve of my playing?”

 

At other times, I picture myself in lush, green field beside a shimmering crystal lake, surrounded by towering pine trees. Robins and blue jays glide above, twittering, while soft, white clouds drift lazily across the sky. A sense of peace washes over me, lifting off the blanket of loneliness, sadness, and fear as I navigate life with Bill in memory care.

 

But what I enjoy the most from my music is a sense of fulfillment. Learning to master the bass clef and coordinate my hands to play two different things at once challenges my brain and physical dexterity. As I master one piece, it pushes me towards another, more complex piece, giving me that sense of accomplishment that I crave. 

 

Perhaps I’ll achieve something more tangible in the remaining years of my life; but, for now, playing music on my piano fills that need. It’s my creative sanctuary, a place where I make new musical memories, experience emotional healing, and rediscover my sense of accomplishment. 

 

 

Note: Some names and details have been altered slightly for privacy reasons.

Lessons in Cooking (Jan 14, 2025)

My mother was an excellent home cook, and she loved to experiment with food. She could take anything and turn it into something delicious, whether it was sweet or savory. She invented her own recipes, self-published her own cookbooks, and entered her creations into local cooking contests. In fact, she won first place for her Honey Almond Chicken in the Delmarva Chicken Cooking Contest. 

Mom taught me to cook from a very early age, more out of necessity than anything else. She began working as a Nurse’s Aide at Beebe Hospital when I was very young to add to the family income. Later, she went back to school and earned her credentials as a Licensed Practical Nurse. Eventually, she became a private duty nurse, caring for elderly retirees who moved to the beach from nearby cities. Since she worked the night shift, cooking became my responsibility. 

I love to cook and, although I didn’t appreciate it at the time, I had access to the best ingredients in town. We had an enormous produce garden - about 3-5 acres if you count the acres of sweet corn and watermelons. My dad was an exceptional gardener with the talent to grow just about anything. We enjoyed fresh corn, string beans, peas, lima beans, onions, potatoes, broccoli, turnips, beets, cucumbers, tomatoes, and a variety of fruit, including strawberries, blackberries, and blueberries. My dad wouldn’t eat salads, so we never grew lettuce that I recall. I don’t remember growing carrots either, but we did eat them. Maybe we bought them at the local IGA? 

In late summer, we would begin preserving any leftover produce for use during the winter. I remember hours spent boiling and peeling beets, blanching and skinning tomatoes, and cutting corn off hundreds of cobs. I can still see the rows of wooden shelves that wound around our basement, now completely lined with jar after jar of canned goods from our summer garden. There was never a lack of food in our house, summer or winter.

I learned to cook very basic foods as my dad would not eat anything fancy. Just meat, potatoes and veggies. He did have a soft spot for bread and desserts, so mom taught me to bake. To this day, I love the smell of yeast foaming in a cup and fresh cinnamon rolls baking in the oven. Flaky apple pie, melt-in-your-mouth fudge, and chewy oatmeal cookies baking in the oven still make the best air fresheners! 

The one food my mom taught me to make that I couldn’t tolerate was sauerkraut! I hated the smell of it then, and I hate it now. In fact, my stomach won’t tolerate it. So, no sauerkraut in my house! 

Today, at 74, I’m expanding my culinary horizons, cooking dishes my father and husband would never eat. I take classes at OLLI’s, watch Food Network, and experiment with what I learn. Just this year, I mastered Chicken Curry, green enchilada sauce, and clam chowder soup from scratch – proof that it’s never too late to learn new skills. 

I’m thankful I learned to cook from my mom; and, when my daughter was young, I passed those skills on to her as well. In fact, she’s a better cook than I am!

My biggest regret, though, is not teaching my son. The society I grew up in didn’t encourage men to cook – it was “unmanly.” Thankfully, times have changed, and he’s now starting to pick up some of those skills as well. 

So, thank you, Mom, for teaching me how to cook. I may not have appreciated it when I was young, but I sure do now. Your lessons have been a gift that keep on giving! 

Just Grieving . . .

One of the hardest things you ever have to do

 is to grieve the loss of a person who is still alive. 

 

My Mother-In-Law, A Memoir of a Unique Friendship

Thinking back to that day in early 1970, I can still feel the knot in my stomach as I prepared to meet the formidable Mrs. Downes, a woman who would leave an indelible mark on my life. A few months before my engagement to her son, Bill, I had been invited to dinner to “meet the parents.” I was extremely intimidated because of the stories I had heard about them.

In the 1930s, Mrs. Downes was a society reporter for the Washington Post. At the same time, Mr. Downes was serving as an aide to President Roosevelt. It was fate that the two would meet in the White House and later marry. Mr. Downes later became a Naval commander of the ship, The Idaho; and, later still, the head of Civil Defense. Even Bill’s grandfather was somebody important. The John R Downes Elementary School in Newark, Delaware, was named in honor of him. These people were way above my social class! I was a simple, country girl whose dad was a farmer and a mom who was a private duty nurse. However, I had been invited to dinner at their home, and there was no getting out of it.

 

As I entered the home, my trepidation increased. Hitchcock chairs, Duncan Phyfe tables, old clocks, Tiffany lamps, and a myriad of other antiques, whose names escape me, were arranged in every nook and corner of the visible rooms. In the dining room, the table was draped in white linen tablecloth. The table was set with Steiff Rose Sterling flatware, Blue Willow plates, sterling silver Paul Revere bowls, and sparkling, cut-glass serving pieces. Rows of antique, porcelain, miniature tea sets lined the plate rail that circled the room like a train track.

After introductions to Robert and Marylyn, I sat down at the table as the smell of prime rib, mashed potatoes, fresh rolls, and asparagus tantalized my appetite. However, I was too nervous to eat. As Robert sliced and served the meat, our conversation went from talk about my college professors to “those people in Southern Delaware.” And, yes, I was from Southern Delaware!

I began to wonder what she would think of me if she saw my make-shift home in Lewes and our “Green Stamp” dishes. What if I said the wrong thing today and sounded like “those people from down south?” Was Bill going to ditch me after this dinner? 

Marylyn’s square jaw marched up and down as she chatted on about her days covering the society news in Washington, D.C. One story I recall vividly is her shock at watching a senator’s wife unapologetically “double dip” her shrimp into the cocktail sauce. "I must make sure never to do that," I thought to myself with a silent "eye roll."

Her pepper-gray hair, knotted into a tight bun, emphasized her high cheekbones and thick eyebrows. She wore long, colorful beads that hung to her waist, bright-red nail polish, and real gold earrings. I’d heard from my college chums that she volunteers at the college library as a “Shusher.” I remember thinking she seemed to fit that part perfectly!

I cut my meat slowly, taking a bite now and then, contemplating how to contribute to the conversation. Then, glancing around, I noticed the Downes’ had already finished their meal. How had that happened? 

I don’t recall much more about this first meal together; but obviously, it didn’t stop Bill from marrying me. A few weeks later, our engagement was announced, with our wedding to be held on December 26, 1970. Bill went off to Army helicopter school in Forth Wolters, Texas, and would not be home until Christmas. We would marry then and head back to Texas together the next day. 

My mother-in-law was delighted to discover that I had no preferences about the ceremony. She immediately got busy making all the arrangements from getting the church, organizing a small reception, and making a list of those she wanted to attend. Personally, I was glad all I had to do was buy my gown, invite my own people, and show up! My dad had informed me earlier that “he wasn’t going to pay for any more weddings this year.” He had already paid for my brother to marry the year before. So, Mrs. Downes’ natural inclinations to “take charge” was actually a blessing for me. 

The wedding was small, yet perfect. Afterward, Bill and I traveled to Mineral Wells, Texas. A few weeks later, we made our way to Fort Rucker, Alabama, where Bill completed his flight training. Six months later, he departed for Vietnam, while I returned to Delaware to continue my studies at the University of Delaware. 

Now, she could “watch over me” while Bill was away, and "watch over me" she did – with both good and not-so-good outcomes! First, she put a deposit down on an apartment and completely furnished it with items she and Mr. Downes bought at auctions, one of their favorite pastimes. 

I didn’t have to do a thing but move in. After I was settled, I took a job at DuPont Company as a typist. I also re-enrolled at the University of Delaware on a part time basis. When I wasn’t working or going to school, I was out with my friends. This made it hard for my mother-in-law to keep track of me!

Somehow, Mrs. Downes obtained the phone numbers of all my girlfriends. This was before cell phones, so the friendly, five-pound phone book was her best friend. Whenever she couldn’t reach me at home, she would call my friends, one after the other, looking for me. I would finally get notified by one of my friends that "Mrs. D is on the hunt for you!" Eventually, I returned home, called her back, and settled her down. 

I remember one day in particular that ended in not-so-good consequences. I had gone out with a friend in her car, leaving mine at home. Meanwhile, Mrs. Downes was trying to locate me, but none of my other friends knew where I was. Frustrated, Mrs. Downes drove to my apartment to check on me. When she discovered my car out front, but received no answer when she knocked on the door, she was positive that I was lying dead on the apartment floor from exposure to gas fumes. So, what was she to do? What any hysterical MIL would do, of course. She called 911! When I got home, there was the fire department about to enter my apartment. When she saw me, she yelled, “Where the hell have you been?” 

I wasn’t very happy being yelled at, but eventually everything was resolved. The rescue squad went home without breaking down my door, and Mrs. Downes and I parted on friendly terms. But, from then on, I found it best to let her know where I was at all times. It was much easier that way!

My friends often asked me how I could tolerate such an “interfering” mother-in-law. For me, it wasn’t as hard as they imagined. Yes, she could be very annoying, but, at age 60, she was old enough to be my grandmother. To me, she was gift. I now had an older person to care about me, to take me shopping, and to invite me into her life. This was something I never had, as both of my own grandmothers died when I was very young. 

Mrs. Downes took me to antique auctions where I learned how to shop for the best pieces to furnish my new home. She took me to the Faculty Club at the University, where I not only learned some social skills but also how to enjoy fine dining. When I became pregnant, she took me to the finest department store in town and bought me a whole wardrobe of maternity clothes. She shared her family history with me and listened to me for hours as I shared my life story with her. I believe we developed a mutual respect as well as deep friendship.

Did I get mad at her? Yes, many times. Her overprotectiveness and worrying was often “over the top.” But, in the end, it was worth it. I learned so much about life from her and she treated me to experiences I never would have had. We developed a special bond that will forever be one of my most cherished memories. 

A NEW Year and a NEW Resolution

I’m smiling today, and it feels good. I've finally broken out of my “loneliness” depression. I no longer go into a mental slump the minute I walk into my apartment, something I've experienced since I moved Bill into care, two years ago.

A huge breakthrough came thanks to my daughter, Shelly, who gave me a simple but powerful "assignment” (see previous blog posting) to write about all the good things about living alone. I’m an extremely visual person and needed to see my thoughts in print before this truth took root in my brain: Being alone is not bad! 

I no longer feel that I need someone in the house, or that I have to keep busy 24/7, or that I need a man in order to make my life complete. (After 74 years of living under the “guidance” of men, I can finally say that I don’t have to have one to function! That is a miracle in itself!)

 

My next goal is to do something meaningful for the rest of my life. Yes, I will continue to care for Bill, and that is certainly meaningful, but I’m talking about meaningful to me. I want to leave this earth knowing that I made a difference, even if it’s a small difference. 

So that is my 2025 New Year’s resolution: find something meaningful to do. I’ll keep you posted on my journey! 

 

In the meantime, Happy New Year to all of you who take the time to read and comment on my blog. Your comments make my blog not just meaningful, but special! 

Finally: Read this article from Time Magazine on "How to Get Better at Doing Things Along."