May, 1896. I drove down the lane towards our farmhouse with trepidation. As I approached, the barn doors hung open, an ominous sign. I almost hoped it was a thief, as I would rather face a thief than my husband.

It was no thief. Sam must have heard our approach, as he stormed out of the barn and rounded the side of the house as I drove on by. His eyes ablaze with rage, he attempted to grab the horse’s harness. I considered turning around and heading back the way I’d come, but knew the strategy would prove futile and possibly dangerous. I envisioned him jumping upon Absalom to chase us down. I pulled the buggy to a halt in front of the barn, said a prayer, and relied on the children’s presence to save me.

They awakened, rubbing their eyes, and asked to get down. Sam spoke not a word, so I untied the shawl holding my babies safe to their seats. One at a time, I handed my precious cargo down to him, hoping their touch might calm him.

The three of them stood in silence, peering up at me as I sat frozen to my seat. Seconds passed before Sam seemed to reach a decision. Unexpectedly, he scooped them up, one under each arm, and marched toward our house.

“Mama, Mama!” They clawed at his arms and wriggled desperately, kicking their little legs.

Oscar and Helen’s cries startled me out of my stupor and I slid over the side of the wagon to follow. Several steps ahead of me, they disappeared inside and the bar fell into place, locking me out of my own house. Enraged, I kicked and beat at the door, screaming, “Let me in! You devil! Let me in!”

Moments later, the door flew open and he stood ominously before me, the children hidden from view.

“Where were you today?” he asked in a hollow, toneless voice.

“At the church bazaar with Ella. For my birthday,” I said, to point out to him what he had forgotten.

“I’ll just bet you were at the bazaar. I took note of the way you ogled that bootlicker at the farrier’s the other day.”

“What? What do you mean? Don’t be absurd!”

“Don’t deceive me! It takes little effort to imagine where you were.” He then stepped forward, shut the door behind him, and shoved me backwards. I fell sideways, grabbing for the porch post, missing it and rolling down the steps. Landing on my shoulder in the dirt, I cried out in pain. He followed me and took hold of my other arm to hoist me upwards onto my feet. I twisted away from his foul, whiskey-laden breath.

“Leave me alone,” I seethed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. We spent the day with Ella at the church bazaar.” I repeated this slowly, carefully enunciating each syllable of each word.

“You’re no more than a tramp,” he snarled. “I could kill you for taking my children into some filthy honky-tonk.”

“Poppycock! I presume you’re not in your right mind to even suggest such rubbish. They are my children too!” I stomped my foot. “You…you son of a bitch! How dare you call me names? You’re nothing but a vile whoremonger…as well as a drunk!” This I added for good measure, and then I slapped him. Hard.

Stunned, he took a step backwards, reaching up to touch the bright red finger marks stamped across his cheek. He pushed me against the porch rail with his other hand. Most certainly drunk, he still had the advantage of simple brute strength.

Mindful that I could not physically win this battle, I determined it better to withdraw. I regained my balance and made to move away from him when he lurched forward, snatched me by the collar of my bodice, swung me around and punched me in the face.

“If you conducted yourself properly, I wouldn’t have to do this!” He then seized my neck with both hands, choking me. He strangled me tighter and tighter, and I realized I was fighting for not only my breath, but my very life. My vision clouded near the edges, while his putrid breath scorched my face.

I couldn’t die. My children needed me.

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Mom’s shoes had developed a pervasive stench. There was no other way to describe it. In hindsight, I realize it may have been related to the fact that she continuously wore the same pair of leg-support knee-highs. I was somehow deluded into thinking she washed them occasionally. Now I realize she probably did not. I could have been more proactive about washing them myself, but she always wore them, and did not want an additional pair as she felt the cost was too expensive. It would have been an excellent idea if I had bought her a second pair anyway, and helped her change them each week, and then washed the pair she had been wearing. Why, oh why, didn’t I think of that? It now seems like a no-brainer. Perhaps I was still maneuvering through various and changing forms of denial. In any case, the next best thing was a bottle of foot odor remover. I showed her how to sprinkle some of the white powder in her shoes each morning. This really helped with the odor.

One day, several weeks later, I visited her and noticed the yellow plastic bottle of Comet Cleanser I had brought to clean her sink and toilet sitting on her nightstand in her bedroom. I found this a little odd, so I asked her, “Mom, why is the Comet Cleanser on your bedroom nightstand shelf?”

She replied, “Well, I am sprinkling it in my shoes every morning, just like you told me to!”

She tried so hard to follow directions. My heart went out to her for trying. Well, at least her shoes were very clean inside, and the bottoms of her feet sparkling! I replaced the appropriate bottle of foot odor remover by her bedside, and brought the Comet Cleanser home with me. I am reminded of her every time I clean our toilets!

My mother did not take kindly to what she considered “interference” with her housekeeping. Because she had always been such an immaculate housekeeper, walking into her apartment and seeing her bathroom sink caked with grime and an ever-growing brown ring around the toilet bowl was one more reminder that her brain function was deteriorating. Whenever I thought I could carefully, yet unobtrusively, clean the sink or toilet without her noticing I seized the opportunity. However, I sensed that change loomed on the horizon.

Lessons Learned

Have more awareness than I did, and buy an extra pair of support hose! Wash the extra pair in the sink whenever you visit.

Assisted living facilities typically have a cleaning service, but Mom refused to let them come into her apartment.  Should this be the case for you, and hygiene/sanitary living conditions become an issue, consider arriving while the loved one is otherwise occupied (on a bus ride or in the dining room eating, for example), clean the grime off the sink and toilet, and change the towels and sheets while he or she is away. It is unlikely to even be noticed, but you will have the peace of mind knowing the living space is clean. Bring cleaning supplies with you when you visit and remove them when you leave.

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