Nonfiction by Kelly Kolodny
Cat hair piled up on the old shaggy carpet. The sturdy pine coffee table, built by my younger brother when he took woodworking in high school, was topped with several years of Better Homes and Gardens. A persistent stale odor wafted around furniture and throw pillows worn thin. As I sat with my parents in the den of their small ranch-styled home, week after week, I felt fatigued and overwhelmed. We had reached a point when important decisions needed to be made regarding their care, resulting in changes for them and how they would spend their remaining years. Sensing my worries and stress, their long-haired rescue dog, Caleb, often put his head in my hand. Their five cats gathered around me, bidding for my affection. Noises from outdoor feeders reminded me of my parents’ sense of protection and care for the natural world. Changes in my parents’ lives also would result in adjustments for the outdoor wildlife they supported.
Mom’s stroke occurred a few years before dad’s heart attack. Not physically visible, the stroke was a fog that rolled in and changed her interactions with others signaling something was not right. A cancer diagnosis and dementia followed. When dad had his heart attack, the doctors were unsure they would perform surgery since he was in his mid-nineties. He told them he had a family who cared for him, a garden that needed tending, and a will to live. An orchestra of voices from dad’s extended family persuaded the doctors to move forward with the surgery.
Like many seniors, my parents’ social security covered less and less of their living needs. When they became ill, I began to sift through their finances and started to understand the full extent of their fragile economic circumstances. To help, I brought groceries each week—canned tuna, bread, apples, bananas, crackers, and pre-made meals they could heat up in the microwave.
Weekly visits followed a similar routine. Unload food. Try to complete some household chores. Talk. If I was less stressed, I might have understood more clearly what my parents shared during those moments. Personal memories and life lessons were offered that later became cherished gifts.
During one visit, I remember Mom walked into the kitchen to get a drink.
“Do you want something to eat, Kelly?”
“I’m fine,” I replied.
“Oh, come look who’s in the bird feeder. It’s Timothy.”
I pulled myself up from their tattered brown couch to look at the feeder and set my eyes on Timothy, a good-sized squirrel with a fluffy tail curved into a half-circle. He filled his cheeks with seed as he rested on the edge of the feeder. Soon Timothy was joined by another squirrel. Traveling up a narrow wooden ladder my dad built, the squirrels easily reached the rectangular feeder at the window level. Enchanted with birds, my parents equally were taken with squirrels.
Feeling bold, I questioned mom about their care for squirrels.
“Some people try to keep the squirrels out of their bird feeders. They want the birds to have the seed.”
I had an idea of the response I would receive and was not surprised by it. Dressed in her Sears sweater and loose blue jeans, mom cast me an indignant look.
“Not us. We love squirrels. As a matter of fact, several of them live in our attic.”
I was not taken aback by this statement. When I was at their house, I heard noises coming from the attic which none of us had entered in years. Aware that squirrels were not helpful for the upkeep of the house, I nonetheless appreciated my parents’ care for them. They had formed a relationship with squirrels. They watched them through the kitchen window and noticed their expressions as they ate. They talked with them. The ladder was a bridge connecting my parents’ lives, filled with family, pets, and regular medical appointments, to the natural world.
“Mom, how do you know the squirrel in the bird feeder is Timothy? Can you tell them apart?”
“Not really. We name all of the squirrels Timothy. We want them to have names. Naming is important. But it would be hard to remember all of their names, especially at our age.”
Naming, similar to building a ladder, brought them closer.
After gazing out the window for several minutes, I watched mom as she sat down beside dad on the couch. Lucy, one of her feisty orange cats, burrowed into her lap and mom instinctively kissed her. Caleb slept at my parents’ feet. My parents were not ready to let go of their independence. They still had some things to share with each other and their family. We needed to continue caretaking in this manner for a while longer.
Following his heart surgery, dad stayed home for two years before he died. Mom’s dementia progressed to a point where she no longer remembered her husband died. She couldn’t recall her grandchildren’s names. When we moved her into a nursing home, we divided the pets so they were kept safe and in the family. Caleb became my dog, sitting beside me in the evenings while I planned lessons and graded college papers.
My brothers, their wives, my husband, and I spent months cleaning out and painting my parents’ home in preparation of selling it. During one of my last visits, I walked through every room. It was old, clean, and empty. There was nothing left, except the feeder and the ladder which I eyed when I looked out the kitchen window. Since the feeder no longer contained seed, Timothy did not visit. This bridge was broken—though the lessons connected to the ladder carried forward.
Kelly Kolodny is a professor of education at Framingham State University in Massachusetts. She has written a variety of academic articles and books. She also has composed book reviews for the Southern Literary Review.
