I grew up in a tight-knit family environment. I tell people about annual big get-togethers with my mom’s siblings and their families. I also grew up only blocks away from my paternal grandparents.
Mac and Helen Rodgers lived just across the street from the Garwin school building. I would get off the bus and walk (sometimes run) the short distance to their door.
They had a huge fenced in yard with lots of trees. There was an old tractor tire filled with sand right next to the bench swing. Green clothesline criss-crossed the entire area, making perfect places to hang sheets and create an instant fort my brother wasn’t allowed to enter.
My favorite asset was the swing set. I spent countless hours swinging back and forth, going down the slide or climbing one of the poles to hang from the top bar then jumping from the highest point to the ground. I wish I was still that fearless.
I remember everything about that yard from the rusty gate latch to the picnic table that always had something grandpa was working on top of it.
The house was my second home. It was small, but it was my playroom as I grew. I would always race through the house to get to “my desk.” A small downstairs room had been converted into a playroom. There wasn’t a lot of room, but there was enough to fit two little desks side-by-side for my sister and I. We loved to color and would spend hours at the desks doing just that.
Grandpa would always have a project going; and when he would need our help, Trish and I had our little chairs to sit next to him while he would tinker and show us what to do. I knew how to use an electric screwdriver and tie quilt knots before I was in upper elementary school. Helping grandma in the kitchen was my favorite. I wish I could cook as well as she could.
I have everything about that house memorized — from the cracked yellow linoleum in the dining room to the brown curtains in the living room.
Memory is a fickle thing though. I’d like to know what kind of algorithm the brain uses to determine what sticks and what doesn’t. Shouldn’t we be allowed more choice in the matter?
I found out fairly early in life that isn’t always the case.
My grandparents were such a big part of my life. We never needed babysitters because grandpa and grandma were always there to care for us when mom and dad were working or coaching.
When I was 11, my dad told me my grandma, his mother, had something called Alzheimer’s. What did that mean? I hadn’t heard of such a strange sounding thing. I remember everything about that moment. I had just played and lost a little league playoff softball game to our rivals, Ferguson, missing the championship by one game. Then I learned the grandma I knew and loved would slowly drift away. The woman who taught me how to sew and bake chocolate chip cookies would never be the same.
It was a blessing that she only suffered with the disease for two years, but it felt like a long two years. It seems so unfair that all of my good memories with grandma had to end with the sad looks of unrecognition and confusion. In this instance, I have a choice. I always remember my grandmother first and her suffering second. I will do everything in my power to remember her forever, but even if I fail, I believe we will know each other in heaven some day.
November is National Alzheimer’s Disease Awareness and Caregivers Month designated by President Ronald Reagan in 1983. Whether you know someone who has it or know a family who has dealt with it, remember to do what you can for these affected by the disease. Hopefully someday, we will find a cure so no one will have to go through it again.
Contact Pam Rodgers at 641-792-3121 ext. 6531 or prodgers@newtondailynews.com