Dad's Very Important 5th Birthday

Dad, on his 5th Birthday, 1930
Photo by Dad's Mother

Dad's 5th birthday was a life-changing event. His family had moved from the country to the big city, they were sharing a house with friends, and public school would soon claim his childish freedom.

Stock Market Crash of 1929

It was August 11, 1930. One year before, the stock market had hit a peak high of 381.17 on the Dow Jones. But by late October, Black Tuesday stunned the world with the greatest crash the market had ever known. Ripples of the stock market crash reached everywhere. In Oklahoma, where Dad's family lived, drought had struck and the cotton crop failed. Towns and farming communities suffered greatly and many people migrated elsewhere, leaving ghost towns and small cemeteries behind.

My father's parents had been working on dairy farms and did some time as share-croppers. Grandpa was mechanically inclined and also took on odd jobs, which may be how he met Mr. Colson, the owner of the general store. When the store had gone under due to lack of funds, the Colsons moved to Ft. Worth, Texas and started life over. They got established in a two-story building which had the store on the street level and living quarters upstairs. Mr. Colson wrote to Grandpa and said he should come on down to Texas and find work in the city, where more opportunities were to be had.

The Big Move

My father's parents piled their household belongings on a Model T Ford, tied a side of ham in butcher paper, loaded their two young sons in the back seat, and drove perhaps 5 hours in the heat on two-lane blacktop into a new life and a new world. When they arrived in Ft. Worth, they went right to the Colson's place, presented the ham, and moved in upstairs alongside their friends. Grandpa helped out around the store at first, Grannie looked for a job.

So it was in Ft. Worth, Texas on August 11, 1930 that my father - the shorter boy in the photo above - turned 5 years old. His mother baked a cake and put it on a glass cake stand that she may have borrowed from Mrs. Colson. Shirley Colson, the granddaughter of my Dad's benefactors, was present to help with the festivities. No doubt Dad's older brother had his share of cake too! Grannie got out their Brownie box camera - you can see her shadow partly cast over Dad's feet - and took this photo on the great day!

A Shift in Family Fortunes

From this point in our family history, so many new things happened. The boys got a good public school education in the city. Grandpa worked many jobs, but wound up as head mechanic of the City of Ft. Worth Garage. Grannie worked her way up from a seamstress to a floor supervisor with Williamson Dickies, making uniforms and jeans during World War 2. Dad signed up for the Navy from a recruiting office in Dallas, and when he came home from the  South Pacific, went to college on the G.I. Bill. His brother worked on aircraft at Convair, where many bombers and fighter jets were made and sent into the battle. Both boys had professional careers after the War and were able to provide their children with a very different life than the one that they themselves were born into.

On that hot day in August of 1930, a boy cut into his birthday cake and started changing his own path in life. He's done so much since then. Built houses, had a long marriage, raised two daughters, worked 25 years at one job and retired. He will soon turn 89! You can bet that he'll be having cake on that day too, because he still has so much to celebrate.

Mother's Day - I am not my Dad's new Mommy!

Dora, my father's mother
Formal portrait circa late 1940's

My grandmother was a wonderful person, and could love people unconditionally. She started out in life with very little, but worked hard all her life. Grannie was a mother to two sons - my father was the younger of the two. Both of my father's parents taught their boys to be respectful, work hard, play when it was time, and love truly. Grandmother Dora was hospitable, a great cook, a wonderful seamstress, a productive gardener and rancher, and was expert at spoiling us grandkids! She endured the Great Depression, World War 2, the transition from life on a farm to life in the big city. My grannie was a real mother and grandmother - she earned those titles daily.

A couple of years ago, I was seeing a counselor to help me cope with the stress of being a full-time caregiver for my Dad. He has dementia and I spend most of my time with him. I told the counselor about many of the things that I do for my Dad: cooking, driving, home haircuts, laundry, pedicures, keeping files, managing medications, providing activities, and going to doctor's visits. She listened intently and then said, "Pam, you have a baby. It's the same as caring for a baby."

Well, I am here to tell you - Dad is not a baby and I am not his new Mommy.

Baby Culture

Many people who want to have a family plan on having a baby. They hope for the best, and prepare for the arrival of their new child. Young parents can ask their peers and parents for advice, and in many situations, they can expect support from their family and community. Their friends probably throw a party and shower them with gifts to help set up the little one in good style. Young mothers will freely give advice and swap stories about everything from pregnancy to birth to first diaper change to cutting the first tooth. When baby comes home, the parents are congratulated, and they begin the task of caring for and nurturing their child. They look forward to the many things their child will learn, and will be able to do. Perhaps they dream of what college or university the kiddo will attend. They might speculate on their child's future marriage and possibly, grandchildren!

In short, they expect the child to grow, flourish, learn new things, eventually take care of itself, and start the cycle of life anew.

Dementia Culture

My generation wasn't sure what they were expected to do when their parents became elderly. Many folks my age remember grandparents who lived in nursing homes or some type of senior apartment, set apart from the mainstream of life. I know there was exceptions, but there was a host of long-term nursing homes in the 1960's and 70's that were home to many seniors. My mother told me that she never wanted to be put in a place like that and she got her wish.

When Dad developed dementia, Mom was his caregiver at their home until she got lymphoma and passed away. He was heartbroken. He spent a year trying to live alone, with lots of help from my sister. But eventually his memory problem progressed to the point that he needed to live with somebody. Seven years ago, he and his dog moved in with my husband and I.

Caring for Dad is not like taking care of a baby. I can't hope for him to learn new things. He won't ever become independent. We were not congratulated when Dad moved in, although some folks have said kind things about our situation. There was no "Daddy Shower" of presents and advice when we were preparing for his arrival. Our culture does not yet fully support home caregiving, even though the Alzheimer's Association reports that in 2013, 15.5 million caregivers provided 17.7 billion hours of unpaid care for family members with memory loss. That number will increase as our population ages.

Limited Similarities, But No Comparison

Like a new mother, I never leave Dad alone. I provide a lot of assistance, but I provide it with respect and compassion. He still feels that he has authority over me, and I frequently fall into old father-daughter patterns because of that. Many times a day, I feel that I am about 8 years old. That's what hanging out with an 88-year old will do for you!  I never feel like I am Dad's new Mommy. Even if the day comes when he can't dress himself or feed himself, he will never be my baby. He will always be my father - the agreeable, easy-going, provider who towered over my childhood days.

So please don't wish me a Happy Mother's Day because I am a caregiver. I don't have a baby here. Perhaps I can be as strong and productive as my grandmother. Perhaps I can learn how to love unconditionally. Those are good goals.

If you know a family caregiver, no matter what their situation, please be supportive. Refrain from making assumptions about their situation, withhold judgement. Respect their role. It's a hard job, but well worth it, and it's a job that more of us will be taking on soon. And perhaps someday, somebody will be your caregiver. Then you won't be their baby, either. You will still be who you are, even if your life and your role in it changes.

Bacon and Eggs and Memories with Daddy

Classic breakfast: Bacon, eggs, and toast!
Photo by Pam Stephan

Dad was the family's breakfast chef. Mom didn't like to get up early, and she never took us to school. That suited Dad fine, as he got up early to go to work anyway. He'd knock on our bedroom doors to wake us up, then head for the stove.

Rewind in Time:
My Dad and his brother grew up in a house where their father did the breakfast cooking while the mother got ready for her job at Williamson Dickie's clothing factory in Ft. Worth. In their family, breakfast was always a hot, cooked meal. Breakfast was never pastries or cold cereal or donuts. No sir! Real Men grew up on bacon and eggs and Mrs. Baird's white bread. My grandpa used a cast-iron skillet and most likely did his frying on a gas stove. In the early 1920's, as newlyweds, Dad's parents had joined a group of migrant cotton pickers. They signed on as the cooks for the crew, so they lived with the chuck wagon and provided meals for all the workers, moving from job to job as the crop was harvested. Grandpa made biscuits and gravy and Grannie fried bacon and eggs for about 25 pickers, a boss, and themselves. Coffee was always supplied with breakfast. It was hard work, but they had grown up on dairy farms and were used to long days in the outdoors. When the Great Depression hit, and cotton crops failed to do well, they moved to the city with their two small boys. Grandpa became a mechanic and Grannie became a seamstress. Dad and  his big brother attended school and found jobs in the city, in the years leading up to World War Two.

Dad, age 34, on a trip to Disneyland
Photo by Mary Simons

Fast Forward: My Dad comes home from WW2 and marries the girl who lived 2 blocks away. 10 years later, I am born. Once I graduate from baby food, my Dad introduces me to The Real Breakfast. This becomes the breakfast we kids eat most of the time until we get to senior high school.

Making Bacon and Eggs
When Dad made his school-age daughters The Real Breakfast, he made it the same way his father did. He put two slices of toast in the toaster - or refrigerator biscuits in the oven - and got those started. Then he warmed up the cast-iron skillet while he lined up the bacon and eggs and milk on the counter top. First, he cooked the bacon, keeping all the grease in the skillet and draining the bacon itself on paper towels. As those cooled, he would crack a pair of eggs and slide those into the bacon grease. Using a metal spatula, he would carefully splash a bit of hot grease over the eggs and cook them until done. When everything was ready, he put 2 slices of bacon, 2 eggs, and 2 pieces of toast on each plate and invited us to "dig in!" Dad did this for us faithfully for many years, both at home and on vacation.

Turn-About Time
Now Dad is 88, has dementia, and lives with me. After he retired and he and my mother started traveling around, they ate out for most meals, including breakfast. After Mom passed on and Dad come to live with me, he still wanted to eat out. I usually take him out for his favorite breakfast. But he if he is unwell or if it is Sunday morning, we dine in. Now I have taken up the mantle of Breakfast Chef. My husband helps, but some days it is just Dad and I. We head for the kitchen, I pour him some coffee and bring in the newspaper. While he reads, I get out the eggs, milk, bacon and toast. Now the meal has been updated: turkey bacon instead of pork, whole wheat bread instead of white, fewer eggs, and no bacon grease! Coffee is decaffeinated these days - thanks to the cardiologist - and is drip grind instead of percolated. When all is ready, I bring the loaded plates to the table, say the blessing and we "dig in!"