On the Other Side of the Wall: Batavia Days

I was about sixteen years old when my mom realized we had to do something to help Grandpa whether he asked for help or not. We started going out to their light green house in the heart of Batavia once a week. On Wednesdays my younger brother and sister had their piano and cello lessons nearby so it was convenient for Mom to drop me off at Grandpa and Grandma’s, take the kids to their lessons and then return in time for lunch. Grandpa was usually still upstairs in the bathroom when I arrived. It took him a while to get ready and he may have taken extra time in the bathroom knowing that Grandma probably wouldn’t come in to bother him. Eventually he came downstairs to start in on the important tasks of the day. Sometimes he was already busy. Frequently I’d find him sitting on his kitchen stool tying string around the bundles of papers he was preparing for the re-cycling bin. He was a professional re-cycler. He made a can stomping device from a piece of ply wood. The wood would be placed on top of the can and he would slam his foot down on it thereby crushing the can which was thrown into the blue box. When he saw me he cheerfully boomed HI-Ya Sarah! Then he explained to me exactly how to do what he was doing. If he was busy on the phone lecturing an unsuspecting costumer service representative about how they should manufacture toaster parts better then I would start with my own busy work. The dining room table was always covered with junk mail and newspapers. I tried throwing away scraps of paper and envelopes when Grandpa wasn’t looking and neatly piled up what was left. Next I cleared the saltine cracker box, silvery-pink canisters with the black tops, butter dish, and address book from the counter-top. All of Grandpa’s envelopes with notes and phone numbers scratched onto the backs of them got stacked neatly in the order I found them. The counter was wiped with a sponge and everything was put back in its place. I cleaned the stove, washed dishes, dusted and vacuumed. We tried to do what we could around the house to not only help but to care for Grandpa which I think meant a lot to him. As soon as the trio returned from lessons we started preparing lunch. My little sister disappeared upstairs somewhere trying on Grandma’s earrings and high heels in secret hoping not to get caught. My brother and I opened cans of vegetable soup, tuna fish or boxes of macaroni and cheese. One of us cooked and the other would set the table. Mom took Grandma to the bathroom to wash and dress her and Grandpa escaped to run errands or work outside. Sometimes it annoyed mom that Grandpa would sit down for lunch just as we were finishing up. He had good reason to take advantage of the time we were occupying Grandma. He was preserving his own sanity. After lunch Grandma sat down at the piano to play loud versions of ‘When We All Get to Heaven’ or ‘Blessed Assurance’. She played the piano more for us when she was sick than she ever did before when we visited. The TV was no longer able to compete with those strong fingers playing song after song. At the piano she was happy and reliving her youth as the prestigious organist of Asbury United Methodist Church in downtown Rochester sixty years previous. It amazed us that she remembered how to play when she couldn’t remember how to dress herself. I guess whatever you practice and love the most is probably what your brain holds onto most securely. Sometimes we stuck around to watch I Love Lucy, Perry Mason and The Dick Van Dyke Show on TV. By 4:00 pm it was time to give Grandma a kiss on the lips and Grandpa a hug. So that was our weekly routine, which eventually turned into bi-weekly, at Batavia. As the months went by Grandpa allowed us to take over some of his own jobs. We cut the grass, trimmed the bushes, picked the raspberries and Grandpa left to go wherever he needed to or spent more time in the bathroom. Two years later it was time. Grandpa was tired and it was only the beginning of Alzheimer’s Disease.