Measuring Success

This thought came to me as I pondered the injustices of parenting. I can't think of a more soul-sucking, exhaustion-filled occupation in the world, than being a parent. Many people enter into the business of parenting with a nervous, I-hope-this-all-works-out-well attitude, acknowledging they have no idea what they are doing. For whatever reason, the universe has seen fit to have us humans enter this world with no built-in blueprint of instinctual rules to follow for our care. Everyone has to figure out parenting for themselves.

Some people are blessed with healthy, happy, easy-going children who never give their parents an ounce of trouble. Others have offspring that are a challenge from day one and that never changes. Still others have to deal with the hurdles of children with disabilities, special needs or illnesses that add an immeasurable amount of pressure, worry and responsibility to the endeavor.

How is it possible to know if you are doing a good job as a parent? It doesn't seem fair to judge a person with an "easy" child a better parent than a person who struggles mightily, doing all they can, sacrificing everything, and their child still chooses a life path of self-destruction and heartache. Judging success solely by children's outcome is a recipe for despair and frustration. Each child has the right and obligation to make their own life choices, regardless of the efforts or neglect of their parents. For good or bad, every human has free will to act for themselves.

The only sane and reasonable measuring stick of parenting has to be an internal examination of our own selves. What have you learned from your parenting experiences? Patience? Empathy? Self-sacrifice? Self-discipline? Hope? Joy? Humor? Love? The list of possible answers is endless, but each should be a hint as to how far you have come since you too, embarked on humanity's unknowable journey of parenthood.

David vs. Goliath aka The Day My Parents Got Electricity

 I've told you before that my folks surprize me with their tenacity when facing hard things. What most people don't understand when they talk to my parents, is that their disabilities don't limit them. Just as in the Bible story of David and Goliath, no one expects Ralph and Claudia to be capable of taking on big things, like the State of Oregon. I read a business article that perfectly explains my folks advantage when dealing with the world. 3 things people get wrong about david vs goliath  My parents as a team, are the modern day David and they know how use their sling. You are looking at a photo of my parents latest victory.

You mess with the bull, you get the horn

 To understand the story, the first thing you have to know is that Ralph and Claudia live in a nursing home a couple of miles from my house. Since my parents never had the ability to earn substantial income during their working years, they live in nursing home that accepts the elderly poor. We got lucky when they moved there, it is a nursing home of hard working, caring people who do their very best to meet the needs of their patients. I've seen enough horrible nursing homes to know the difference.

 The only downside to the nursing home is that the building is old. It was built before computers, the internet, cable tv and many things we consider common place even existed. The nursing home staff and patients regularly struggle with the realities of working and living in an old building. One problem became apparent on the first day my parents moved in. There weren't enough electrical outlets in their room.  Unlike most nursing home residents, my mother has a computer, printer and full array of technology that she uses daily.

I bought electrical power strips to handle Claudia's need for more outlets. Bada-bing, bada boom, problem solved. My solution lasted long enough for the maintenance man to see what I had done and to declare it illegal. The power strips I bought at Wal-mart were plastic and fire codes said only metal power strips were allowed. Annoyed but compliant, I hunted down expensive metal power strips and installed them. Once again, all was well in the world.

 Recently that balance was disrupted. New administration at the nursing home decided that my parents had too many electrical devices in use at the same time and that it was a fire hazard. My parents were going to have to rearrange their room to better spread out the electrical load (which was very upsetting to them), or stop using their appliances. The metal power strip solution wasn't good enough. Of course, I got phone calls about the problem. I was sympathetic to both my parents and the nursing home. I understood Ralph and Claudia wanted use their fan to circulate the air, their mini refrigerator to keep snacks chilled, their radio to listen to music, their dvd player to watch movies, etc., etc. Completely reasonable requests, but what can you do? The fire code said it was too much for the room. Once again, the injustice of being poor affected them.

Claudia and Ralph groused about the situation for days. I realized the problem wasn't going away on its own. They didn't want to hassle with the solution the nursing home came up with, which was to constantly plug and unplug each electrical appliance each time they used it. Claudia pointed out that the outlet was not easily reached, and the tv and refrigerator used up the whole outlet anyway. In frustration, I suggested the only thing that seemed reasonable to me. My idea was they should stop talking about the problem and in a few days, they should plug back in their power strip and no one would notice. It was your basic "If you are quiet, no one will care" solution. Yeah....not my proudest moment in life, but what can I say? I was tired of hearing about electrical outlets.

Claudia and Ralph would have none of that. Since the nursing home wasn't making their problem a priority (which I do not hold against the nursing home, at all), and I told them to be devious, they took matters into their own hands. They were determined to get electricity in their room and it was going to be legal and honest. Claudia told me she was going to call the fire marshall and confirm one way or the other, if their metal power strips were unsafe. If they were unsafe, she was going to get quotes from electricians on how much it would cost to add outlets to their room. I wished her well and joked to Rob that my mother had a new project that was going to keep her busy for a while.

My mother did exactly what she said she would, she called the state fire marshal's office. They explained that she needed to talk to her county fire marshal's office. She talked to several more people in different offices, trying to establish who could help her. I don't know how it all came down, but somehow Claudia got the direction from someone to call the nursing home corporate offices. She tracked down the phone number for the head honchos at the corporate office and had a conversation with them. Completely unexpectedly, they agreed with Claudia and Ralph. When in America, does that EVER happen? The next thing I knew, within days, Claudia and Ralph had a brand new, fire-code compliant 4 plug electrical outlet right where they needed it in their room.

 Amazing. Once again, I shake my head in disbelief and give them a deep bow of respect for their victory over the bureaucracy of life. Never underestimate the power of the little guy.

In other semi-related news, my folks wanted you see their room. They are proud of it and I am proud of them.

The pictures of antique cars are Ralph's, he is a car guy. The scenic pictures are puzzles Claudia completed and glued together. 

Ralph and Claudia, hanging out in their 'hood. 

For some reason, they like kissing. 

Claudia's computer desk and more completed puzzles. She is an expert puzzler. 

Claudia' current stack of books. She finishes a book every couple of days, so this is about two weeks worth, give or take a Harry Potter. 

The troublesome corner with new official working plug. 

Claudia - She Makes it Happen

Ralph and Claudia with my brother, their firstborn.

Like many mothers. the only pictures I have of my mother are with her surrounded by family. Her husband, her children, her mother and siblings. Mother's, especially before digital cameras, didn't get much film to themselves.

Claudia is an unusual mother, not just because she has dealt with schizophrenia since her teenage years, but because she is so freaking smart on top of it. The double whammy of astounding brilliance and mental illness makes it practically impossible for people to treat you fairly. In the 1960's, when Claudia became a mother, schizophrenia was treated in what we might consider barbaric ways, with no reliable medications available to control symptoms. There were no social service programs in place to assist in her difficulties. She was on her own to figure out how to care for her two children and keep the voices in her head within reason. As you can imagine, it was a hard road and it didn't go so well.

Just like my dad, Claudia is a hard worker. While Ralph washed dishes, Claudia did a wide variety of manual labor jobs. The court documents presenting my family situation, describe Claudia selling pens door-to-door. According to her, she sold pretty much anything and everything that could be sold door-to-door. It was also Claudia's job to keep track of the family finances and to constantly jump through the myriad of hoops that the government requires when you are poor, ill or down on your luck. That is a daunting task for a healthy, college educated person. I tip my hat to Claudia for her ability to make sure the lights stayed on, food was in the house and the taxes were paid.

The perfect example of Claudia's can-do spirit was happened shortly after we were reunited as a family. Ralph and Claudia wanted to take a road trip to visit friends and I couldn't go with them. No matter, they would go on their own. I asked if they had enough money to make the drive. I didn't have any money I could to give to them, and I didn't think it was a good idea they were trekking across the midwest states by themselves. Claudia told me not to worry, she had a plan on how to get some money. She would sell copies of her cookbook. I was all, "Cookbook? What cookbook?" She casually pulled out a stack of her self-made cookbooks, reproduced at the local copy center.  Claudia and Ralph planted themselves in the parking lot of the local popular diner and offered a copy of her cookbook to passersby's. Wouldn't you know it - within a few hours they had sold enough cookbooks to fund their trip and off they went.

No matter what the challenge or hardship, Claudia has been able to figure out a workable, legal solution to the problem. Numerous times I have thought, "Oh well. Ralph and Claudia are gonna have to accept this situation," and every single time I have been proven wrong. My mother's go-to mantra is "Jehovah will provide" and that is what keeps Claudia open to all possibilities, all opportunities and all miraculous outcomes, especially the one unlikely one - that her children would find their way back to her.
Jehovah did alright on that one.

As an added bonus, I am including a sneak peek of the first pages of Claudia's cookbook. Try her recipes for yourself. If you want to get more, contact this website and I will happily hook you up with my mom's cookbook. She is proud of it and I gotta say,  over the years it has funded more than a few important things.  Bravo, Claudia, Bravo.

The Best Dishwasher in Portland

Ralph Wade - Dishwasher Extraordinaire 

 Have you met my dad? If you haven't, let me have the pleasure of introducing you to him. My dad, Ralph Wade, is an awesome guy. I knew him until I was seven years old, when the State of Oregon decided my parents weren't capable of taking care of my brother and me.
Whatever.
Things happen.

My dad started working at Aladdin Restaurant, inside the Meier and Frank store at the Lloyd Center Mall in 1968 when I was 8 months old. He started out as a dishwasher, standing in front of a sink for hours every day, scrubbing pots, pans and touching every piece of restaurant  glass, silverware, and dish multiple times a day.

When I met my dad again, I was 18 years old and Ralph was still washing dishes at the Aladdin Restaurant. I traveled from my adopted home in Arizona to Oregon to meet my original family. I found Ralph at work, his arms in soapy water up to his elbows when the restaurant manager took me to the kitchen to see him. The ill-tempered manager begrudgingly allowed Ralph a 15 minute break to visit with me. It felt like I was visiting a prisoner at jail. We hugged, Ralph marveling at how I'd grown up and me marveling how my dad hadn't changed at all.

When my dad was in 4th grade, his school told his mother to take him home. Ralph was unteachable. He couldn't read or write or do math. His mother taught him at home and Ralph grew to be a nice man. When he married my mother, she taught him how to read by studying the bible with him.

Ralph worked full-time washing dishes at the restaurant for a couple of weeks shy of 21 years. In 1989 the restaurant closed for good as the Lloyd Center mall prepared to undergo a major teardown and remodel. Ralph began delivering newspapers instead. My dad worked hard and made the most of the limited opportunities life gave him.  I admire him so much for that.

 Life isn't fair. Some people - no matter how hard they try, aren't going to get a college degree or earn a 6 figure salary. So what? My dad isn't lesser than anyone else because he washed dishes. He has always taken the one talent he was given and broke it into 20 pieces, to share with anyone who needed his help. I think the rest of us could learn a thing or two from Ralph, the kid his teachers said couldn't be taught.

 

 

Pack Your Stuff - It's Time to Go

The day the state social worker showed up at the foster home and said to my brother and me,"Get in the car, it's time to go," we had no idea what he was talking about. No one explained to us that we were being adopted. Or maybe they did and we didn't understand it. If they did, I don't think it counts since it went right over our heads. Sort of like just because you explain the birds and the bees once to your child, doesn't mean they have a clue what sex is. I wouldn't stake the possibility of my future status as a grandparent on one conversation, especially if the sex education lecture was delivered by a stranger, not someone familiar to my child.

Anyway....for all of you hoping that adoption was a step up from the foster home for Ezra and me, here is where we landed in Eugene, Oregon, 110 miles south of Portland:

The only thing I will say about this house is it wasn't a positive place for Ezra and I.

 What saved me while living with our adopted family in Eugene, was the field across the street. Amazingly enough, 40 years later, it is pretty much the same: 

The big tree on the edge of the field is a weeping willow. When I was 7, it was a majestic specimen. It looks like the years have been hard on it, but it is still standing. The tree and I have a lot in common on that front. All six of us kids in our adoptive family spent hours playing in that tree. The climbing skills I learned on the streets in Portland were honed to perfection in the weeping willow. There was no fence around the empty field when I was kid. In the summer the field was only mowed once or twice. Most of the time the grass was tall enough we could easily hide without ducking down. The field was our playground because we were allowed to be outside after our chores were done, but we needed to be close enough that we could hear when Virginia stuck her head out the screen door on the covered driveway and yelled our names. When that happened, it was usually bad news.

The other best thing of my childhood was the white building on the right side of the photo. This the back side of it, but on the front side, facing Hwy 99, was an auto parts store that gave out free STP oil stickers if we asked for them. So of course, we kids asked for stickers every day. The clerks were polite to us kids, but you could tell we were a pain in their sides.

In the far distance of the photo, in the center, is a building with pointy roofs. Somewhere in there is the sweet part of childhood; a Dairy Queen store where if Virginia felt generous, we could get a chocolate- covered Dilly Bar for a quarter.

Ahhhh.....the Good Old Days.