Lost in an Oklahoma Time Warp

My mother is settling into her new assisted living apartment, where she now has meals delivered to her and still paying less rent than her previous place. There are welfare checks (not the monetary kind) every morning and evening and someone responds in emergencies. Built sometime in the sixties, it's not nearly as ritzy as her last place, but more of what she needs, for less. And, though she doesn't have a clue what it is, I'm thrilled to find they have free wifi.

My job is helping her figure out the complexities of unlocking doors, turning the shower on and off, changing clothes, using the washer, finding her way from the front door of her building to her apartment door, about 25 feet away. It reminds me of teaching a small child, except I can't be sure that what she's mastered today still be able to accomplish tomorrow. I worry about things like the knives in her kitchen drawer, the key she's bound to lose, the walk-in closet she might get lost in. She's so easily frustrated and so angry with herself for every failing.

For a few minutes she seems almost normal and then she asks, "Where are the cats?" She means the two cats she gave to the shelter six months ago. Doesn't believe me when I explain this. She wants to show me how well she cleans her teeth, but she's using a finger because she can't find the toothpaste and toothbrush in a glass next to the sink. She tries to unlock the door by inserting her key into the peephole. She tries to put both legs into one pantleg. I'm wondering how I can leave her alone after only a week of trying to help her master her surroundings.

My sister lent me her classic beige 1969 VW bug, a real act of faith considering how she's treasured it all these years. Three engine replacements, four paint jobs, three re-upholsterings. When I drive down the street people honk at me, lean out their windows and shout, "Nice car!"

Driving this car through central downtown Bartlesville, which looks much as it did in 1969, or even 1959, is like being in a time warp. Broad avenues lined with commercial buildings that haven't been updated in decades. It would make a great movie set, and I'll try to capture it with the camera, maybe tomorrow. But downtown was all but deserted on a Saturday morning because all of Bartlesville was down at Walmart, K-Mart and the other big box stores in outlying areas.

Last night my brother-in-law Maurice, a genuine Oklahoma oilman, took us out to dinner at a real cowboy restaurant, where we had steak (of course) and baked potatoes. Oh, and saw a few real cowboys. Maurice regaled us with all the latest dirt on Oral "God is my attorney" Roberts, Jr., who's gone down in disgrace. Then he told me that he had found a miracle cure for leg cramps in bed--place a cake of soap under the bottom sheet. He didn't believe it himself, but tried it and it worked. Last night I tried it because I've been kept awake by foot and leg cramps, and yes, it did work. I could feel them start to come on and then they faded away. Go figure. Oh, and he says Lifebuoy won't work.

Tonight Mom and I are having Braum's peach ice cream (one thing I've missed about Texas and Oklahoma) and watching Tomescu-Dita winning her 26-mile race in the Olympics.

I'm so impressed with Dita, who at 43, with a teenage son, could have justifiably considered herself too old to compete in the Olympics. But she won by a huge margin. And then within the hour Dara Torres, age 41, won her 12th swim medal for the US. Says Torres, "Don't put an age limit on your dreams." Someday will there be 50-year-old Olympic champions?

Tomorrow I'm taking Mother to church and then we're going to the park to see the ducks. Then we'll practice changing clothes, getting out of the shower and answering the door. And we'll watch the Olympic gymnastics. A day at a time...