Reasons for Feeling Proud

 In a week when my progress on my WIP has amounted to a total of two sentences, it is astonishing to think that I actually feel proud of this accomplishment. Yes, I am proud to have written two sentences. I am proud that I haven't given up in the face of daunting circumstances. 

I thought that I would have lots of time to write when I retired from my day job in April of 2020.  Ah, 2020, that magical year of plague, an overwhelmed health care system, and a major disruption of life as we knew it. The challenges of 2020 were large and frightening. COVID-19 was a rampaging beast that the United States downplayed and downright ignored. Americans were more worried about the toilet paper shortage than they were about their dying neighbors. 

In our household, there were no children to be homeschooled, but my desktop computer was the only one in the house that could serve my wife's needs as she began to work from home. This was my personal sacrifice to the pandemic. Writing on a laptop may not be a big sacrifice, but it is so much easier for me to type on a full-sized keyboard.  I ended up attaching a keyboard to a laptop on a makeshift desk. 

I was just getting into the swing of working from my makeshift desk when my wife's mother took a turn for the worse. At the time I didn't realize how much of my time would be taken up by caretaking responsibilities. She continues to decline. Six months ago she moved to a memory care facility. Anyone who has been through taking care of a family member with dementia knows that being in care doesn't stop the need for family caretaking. I spend three to five hours a day helping her. That is the equivalent of a full-time job. Instead of giving me more time to write, retirement has allowed me to be there for her when she needs me.

The need is exhausting. We go step by step through how to stand up, get in the car, use a fork, wash her hands...all those little, everyday tasks, we take for granted. I hunt the hearing aids that she put away in the toe of a sock, place the phone back on the base to charge because it has been in her walker or under the bed all day, find the door key that is "put away" in the bottom of the laundry hamper, and try as hard as I can to help her laugh at these things instead of feeling foolish.

I wrote two sentences in my book today. I am really proud of that.

Gangsters in Tampa

When I think about the speakeasy culture of the 1920s my mind conjures images of Chicago and outfits like Al Capone's or the infamous O'Banion's Northside gang. The movies brought images of beer barrels chopped open with axes, late-night runs across the Great Lakes to smuggle booze from Canada, and of course baseball bats and Tommy guns. In Chicago alone, there were more than 25,000 men and boys who belonged to one of the gangs. 

Moving to Florida over a decade ago and starting to explore the history of this state introduced me to a new group of 1920s gangsters. Here Charlie Wall's mob clashed with Italian mobster Ignacio Antinori. With the plethora of inlets around Tampa Bay rumrunners were unstoppable. But the real power of the Tampa outfits was Bolita, a type of lottery that was popular in Cuba and among Florida’s working-class minorities. Charley Wall, the black sheep of his blueblooded family,  got into the game early and pretty much cornered the racket. At the height of his power, nothing of importance got done in central Florida without his nod. Gambling, car theft, human trafficking,  prostitution, rumrunning, bootlegging, speakeasies, and music halls were sources of his wealth. That wealth bought him elections, courts, police departments, and city halls. 

What wealth could not buy was protection from a racket bigger than all the others combined. During prohibition, no self-respecting gangster would engage in the dope trade. But, drugs flowed through Tampa's port. Self-respect was of little import to the men whose lust for money fueled the drug trade. Crime syndicates formed and crime was big business. Individuals like Wall were squeezed out by networks spread around the world. After a Decade of Blood, the Trafficante family took over Tampa.

Inside a Home for those with Failing Minds

 There are very few situations harder to cope with than dementia. It is heartbreaking at best. At worst ... there are no words for the nothingness. Dementia is the great abyss staring back at you through the eyes of a loved one. I think that may be why so many families don't visit their loved ones who are living with dementia. 

After nearly half a year of making daily visits to Sarah's mom, I know just how hard it can be to answer the same question a hundred times. I have had to deal with fits of anger and demands that I take her home. I have given her my phone number ten or twelve times a day only to have her call me and ask me to verify the number again. Yes, she uses the number I gave her to call me and ask for my number. The little frustrations are endless.

All I can do is encourage her to enjoy the moment, bring her little things to make life easier, and be there.  Being there is the most important part.  

Grace was quite aware of being in a memory care facility in Clearwater, Florida. She was telling me that this time last year she would never have believed that she would be in a place like this when the new year began. She would have thought we were crazy if we had suggested it. She is aware that her memory is failing. That awareness makes her position harder because she gave her son the power of attorney he used that power to put her in care and deny her friends access. 

She is 97 and she does need help. What she needs most is for him to be present and supportive. Instead, he makes her life harder and keeps her friends away. In the months I've known her, he has visited twice. Once to steal the phone her friends gave her, and once to attend the Christmas party the facility hosted for families. Her friends have hired an attorney to help her out of this situation.  I don't know how their efforts will turn out, but I hope she continues to be Kathy's friend.

Deloris and Grace have been good for her. There are half a dozen other women there who also befriend Kathy and help her. In fact, the residents help each other in many small ways. They are a small community of friends who often do not remember each other's names. Some don't remember which room is theirs or how to get there. They do remember kindness. I have also discovered that it is not just Kathy who looks forward to seeing me walk through the door each day.