Dignifying Dementia (3 page)

Jim often said, “I felt I didn't belong to that family.” When Jim was a young teenager, he found a Mass card with the name Anna Geary Tierney on it. Only when he confronted his father with it was he told of his mother's death and learned that his ‘mother' was his stepmother and the other children, stepbrothers and stepsisters. Only then was he introduced to his mother's family in Aglish, County Waterford. When I met Jim, he spoke with affection of his Uncle Jack and seemed removed from the rest of his family – particularly his father.

According to Jim, his father was impatient and frustrated by Jim's lack of manual dexterity and by his love for books. A voracious reader, Jim talked of ‘mitching' (cutting) from school, strolling along the used bookstalls by the River Liffey, or biking into the Dublin hills to read, or hiding under the covers at night with a book. Jim won a scholarship to the prestigious Synge Street School in Dublin, where, like his father, the Christian Brothers beat him.

Jim needed to read every day: newspapers, magazines and books. He read a daily paper, preferably
The New York Times
and, on Sundays, he savored his favorite section, the
Book Review
. Until the editorial changes, he looked forward to the arrival of
The
New Yorker
and read it cover to cover and missed the
Saturday Review
. Jim's idea of a good time always included a book: Friel, Parker, Yeats, Wilde, O'Neill, Synge, Shaw, McDonagh, O'Faoláin, Higgins, Trevor, le Carré, Kinnell, and Ellman.

In time, Jim's father re-immigrated to the States with his family. Once again in New York City, Jim attended Power Memorial and went on to Fordham University. He worked; he studied; he married. He said to me, “I married in part to get away from my father.” Jim had four children.

While he was in school, he had a part-time job at the now defunct men's clothing store, Rogers Peet. An Irish-Catholic in a predominantly Jewish business, he referred to himself as the “token goy.” Clothing and appearance mattered to Jim, and Ireland and Rogers Peet influenced his style: herringbone tweeds, moleskin slacks, silk rep ties, Johnston Murphy shoes or his elegant Ferragamo loafers. An Irishman, he probably would have worn his Sunday best when he gardened if I hadn't introduced him to the notion of wearing blue jeans and Rockport sneakers.

Rockport shoes and Rockport, Massachusetts – Jim loved the sea, to travel and have ‘adventures.' With the extra money I earned from seminars based on my dissertation on the use of the novel in the training of managers, we rented a house in Rockport, Massachusetts for the summer. There, we walked along Marmion Way, along Back Beach into town, up to Bearskin Neck to look at the water, the lobstermen and their boats.

He also loved gentle hill country. One weekend we went to Berkshire County in Western Massachusetts. On the drive back to our rental apartment near the city, he suggested we consider buying a house in Columbia County in upstate New York – it reminded him of Ireland. And, he said, “A house would be a great tax write-off.” Irishman that he was, Jim preferred owning rather than renting.

So, on another weekend, we went to look for a house. On the way, we played ‘Which House Would YOU Buy.' Near the realtor's office, we saw a little white Cape sitting on about an acre of land. We both shouted, “That one!” We described the house to the realtor who said, “It's for sale and has a low bid on it.” We looked at the house and made an offer: one afternoon, one house, one offer – a few phone calls later, a mortgage application, help from my dad, and we were homeowners.

We had a weekend house. There, our cat, Mulligan, roamed about the yard, stalked deer, caught garden snakes, brought field mice to the doorstep, pounced on falling leaves and was nearly savaged by an enraged blue jay.

Our neighbors, Peggy and John Simpson, were kind, generous and, unknowingly, anxiety-producing. If Jim saw John driving his tractor mower, Jim would laugh and say, “Oh, God, I have to get out there. I can't have our grass a quarter of an inch higher than John's.” And off he would go to mow.

Jim planned and farmed a patch of land; he grew tomatoes, corn, grapes and asparagus. He plotted revenge on Japanese beetles, deer, woodchucks and rabbits. He cleared raspberry bushes and reclaimed land. Meanwhile, I worried about his blood pressure and overexertion, as I watched him pushing his mower up the back hill. He was delighted with the used, red Ariens tractor mower I bought him for his birthday.

In essence, life was easy. On Sunday mornings we headed to the Bakery for pancakes or French toast. When Jim wasn't mowing, raking, pruning or weeding, he was in the hammock reading a book or
The Sunday Times
. In the winter we read by the fire and walked in the snow.

Like most weekenders, we delighted in the scenery, the fresh air and the quiet. Soon, we decided to leave on Monday mornings at 4:00 am, rather than drive back to our apartment on Sunday afternoons. That way we had a few more hours in the country before heading back to work. Jim drove. I was the deer lookout, and the threat of a snowstorm didn't stop him from making that two hour and 10-minute drive each way every weekend. In all, we may have missed only one or two weekends a year.

Eventually, we thought about giving up our apartment near the city and living full-time in the country. To do that we needed jobs in the area. One Sunday we saw an ad for the English Chair at Hudson Valley Community College (HVCC) in Troy, New York, about 40 minutes north of our weekend home. We decided we would both apply for the position, and, if either of us got the job, we could become full-time residents. Amazingly, we were both called for interviews – on the same day – at 10:00 and 11:00. I went first, and on my way out I whispered to Jim, “It's your job. They have union troubles.”

Jim had been the United Federation of Teachers' (UFT) chapter chairman before becoming an administrator. The selection committee at Hudson Valley Community College put three names before the board: Jim's, mine and that of a third candidate. We waited several months to hear the results. I was number two. They named Jim Chairman of the English Department.

Thus, our weekend house became our year-round home. Two years later when we were on vacation in Ireland, Jim called his secretary, Lorraine, from a phone booth on a windy Rosses Point in County Sligo. For an unassuming man with his own demons and insecurities, that call was special. Jim had applied for another position at the college. Lorraine told him that he had been named Dean of Liberal Arts and Sciences. He looked so proud and happy, and I was thrilled for him. To celebrate, he said, “Buy yourself a present.”

“Get something for yourself,” was typical of Jim. At times his reluctance to celebrate or buy gifts for me or for anyone else made me ‘nuts.' I, on the other hand, loved to give him presents: books, pipes, trips, clothes and even tractor mowers. When it came to buying presents or to writing poetry, he had to be perfect – certainly never wanting. Would that he had written more.

His forgetting my 50th birthday was particularly painful. I remember looking at him just before I left for work, saying, “Would you please wish me a Happy Birthday?” He grimaced. Don't ask me how he managed it, but within minutes, I was feeling sorry for him because he was feeling guilty about having forgotten.

Even though I had applied for the chairman's job at HVCC, within three years of earning my PhD in education I wearied of the school business. I resigned my administrative position and took a job as a recruiter with a personnel agency in Manhattan. Despite welcoming the change, I was terrified of leaving my job, my profession and working on commission.

My mother's reaction was, “What are you making? Nothing?”

Always my supporter, Jim said, “You're the gutsiest broad I know.” And added, “Don't worry. We'll be fine.”

He was right.

I enjoyed personnel work; it was fast-paced, required listening, planning, problem-solving, motivating, involved no committees, and I felt I had a more immediate impact on someone's life. But once Jim was working full-time at the college, I began looking for work upstate because the six-hour, round-trip, scenic commute into the city by car and rail was expensive and exhausting. In time we commuters came to know each other very well; we knew who slept, worked or chatted on the ride into Manhattan. We even organized a picnic for commuters and trainmen at Claremont Park. Around the holidays, regular passengers brought chocolate truffles and wine.

Occasionally I stayed over in our rental apartment near the city. Over the years Jim and I were rarely apart – so few times, in fact, that I can name them: obligatory work-related retreats and conferences – in Saratoga for Jim and Williamstown, Lakeville and Gettysburg for me; overnight hospital stays in Dublin, Hilton Head and Boston and Jim's trip to Ireland. We preferred each other's company.

Whenever we were apart, I phoned Jim to catch up on the day's events. One night he said, “The mosquitoes are merciless. I have been clearing the yard, and I'm covered with bites. Frankly, I'm not feeling well.” The next day when I returned home, I saw that Jim's itch was not caused by insect bites. He had a rash from poison ivy. Mosquitoes? Poison ivy? What mattered to Jim was the bottom line – he itched.

After one awful 11-hour round-trip train ride, my half-hearted job search upstate became more aggressive. While I thoroughly enjoyed what I was doing in personnel, we weren't living in a ‘wired' society yet, and the commuting was wearing.

We were able to let go of the apartment when I was hired as Personnel Director for an educational services organization about 35 minutes from home. The organization provided shared services to school districts. Along with my Human Resources duties, I had an opportunity to design handbooks, create a recruiting fair as well as several educational seminars for administrators.

One day, the superintendent of one of the participating districts spoke to me privately, “Would you be interested in the position of Assistant Superintendent in my district?” I said, “Yes.” She added, “I am going to speak to your Superintendent and ask for you to apply,” and she added, “And I want you to act surprised when he tells you.” I said, “I will.” Mistake! I should have consulted Jim.

A month or so went by, my boss called me into the office and told me about the position, and I did as I had promised – I acted surprised. I applied, was appointed and became operationally responsible for the district during a political ‘mess.' We reopened the pool and the library, scheduled assemblies, put student artwork in the halls, organized a major outdoor event, hired new staff and encouraged team teaching. It was a great and gratifying challenge.

However, my former boss had a long memory and didn't forgive. He learned that I had known I was going to be recruited and was livid that I had been dishonest with him and had misplaced my loyalty. So when the Superintendent's position in the district became available, and the school board put my name forward, I was told that my previous boss told the school board in no uncertain terms that he would oppose my candidacy. While the board had given me authority and supported my recommendations for change in the district, they acceded to his position. No surprise. But I was devastated. After the initial shock, I began looking for jobs elsewhere. Jim came with me on the interviews. But I realized that, even though the names changed, the public school business was the same.