Comfort and Joy

A Swift Current Remember the elderly at Christmas

My friend’s mom and the excitement of Christmas…

 

I have shared this story before. But any doubts about a reprise were erased when I received this card from one of my friends. Her mom picked out the photo and asked her daughter to include it with her greetings.

When I look at the expression in her eyes, my heart just melts.

I remember my mom’s nursing home at Christmas. The atmosphere virtually pulsated with anticipation. Holiday décor covered every available surface. Young schoolchildren sang carols. Unfamiliar visitors wandered the hallways.

The excitement—and tension–were palatable.

My mom’s fellow residents were lucky. The head nurse made sure everyone would receive a gift. Under her watch, no one would be disappointed on Christmas morning.

And so now, as we make our lists–and check them twice–let’s follow in the footsteps of my favorite head nurse. Please remember the elderly men and women in your community…

Here is our story:

Thank You For Remembering Me

A tall thin woman slowly edged her walker into my mother’s room. Her long silver hair was pulled in a braid, revealing bright blue eyes and high chiseled cheekbones

Are you Hallie Swift?

Yes, I’m Hallie…

She reached into her pocket, grasping a shiny gold lipstick tube

I’m Dorothy

She raised her arm high in the air;

giggling as she waved the lipstick back and forth;

her voice light, crisp, melodic

Oh Hallie, I just love my lipstick. Thank you for remembering me! Merry Christmas!

In her monthly newsletter

the head nurse had issued a plea—

she needed

Secret Santas

for residents with no families;

she wanted everyone in the nursing home

to find a present under the tree.

My friends and I discussed our gifts

…chocolates and sweaters and books with large print and stuffed animals and baseball caps and comforters and…

Lipsticks for the ladies!

Lipstick?

Yes, my friend urged

…after all, you never lose your vanity!

But let’s not give just one lipstick–

let’s get lipsticks for everyone!

So we asked friends coming to our Christmas party–

Please bring a lipstick for the ladies!

And with that, a tradition was born.

Year after year

we were showered with

Estee’s gorgeous reds, Chanel’s shimmering corals, Bobbi’s hot pinks;

small rectangular boxes adorned with bright paper and festive ribbons;

our own Christmas cornucopia.

We collected so many lipsticks;

I needed an extra suitcase for

the lipstick express!

On Christmas morning

each resident received

a beautiful little package.

A Swift Current Christmas lipstick for the ladies!

Lipstick! Photo by her granddaughter

 

The head nurse was effusive:

my residents are so happy–

And when my residents are happy, my nurses are happy–

And when my nurses are happy…

(her eyes glistened)

Well, girls, what can I say?

you made our Christmas!

But the truth is: they made ours.

For many of us, the trip to buy lipsticks became a defining moment of our holiday season. One friend told me she and the Bloomingdale’s saleswoman shed tears as they selected colors, then added every powder, polish and perfume sample in the department.

A Swift Current Remember the elderly at Christmas

Wayne Thiebald, Lipstick (detail), 1964 (the artist is now age 95)

A small rectangular box;

a simple gesture;

the electricity of Christmas morning;

a gift

under the tree–

bright colors;

big smiles;

Dorothy.

Silver braid

melodic laugh

waving her lipstick high in the air

Are You Hallie?

I just love my lipstick!

Thank you for remembering me.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

 

A Swift Current Christmas Surprise-Lipsticks for the Ladies

Thank you for remembering me! Photo by her granddaughter


I was so moved when a reader in Arkansas took lipsticks last year to her local eldercare facility. She reports the staff was surprised and grateful for her gifts. She plans to do it again this year.

The beautiful women in the photos are the mothers of two of my friends. I deeply appreciate their permission to use these photos, which say more than I ever could.

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A Day in the Life

A Swift Current A Day In the Life--the power of the calendar

Beach Heart (a discovery on an otherwise ordinary day)– Photo by Hallie Swift


 

Every holiday– every birthday–

every year;

my mom was giddy with excitement.

In anticipation

I’d send a reminder to

cousins and friends;

her photo with a note:

hugs and kisses welcome here!

Year after year,

flowers and cards and visitors and candy

descended on the nursing home;

just the thought of it

made me giddy too.

 

A Swift Current A Day in the Life--the Power of the Calendar

They Say It’s Your Birthday–Photo by Hallie Swift

 

Now that she’s gone,

holidays and birthdays

stare at me

from the calendar page;

each promising to deliver

its own private havoc.

Standing in a checkout line,

(is it Mother’s Day already?)

I avert my eyes from

the greeting card display

but it’s too late.

I swat away tears

fumble coins

bungle amounts;

the customer behind me

sighs

with New York impatience.

I want to tell her

(this has never happened to you?)

it doesn’t take much to rattle me–

Father’s Day-

Easter baskets-

Valentines-

ENOUGH!

But

I know

I’m not the only one

upended by the innocuous.

(Facebook reminds me)

there’s no such thing as an ordinary day;

it’s always someone’s

birthday—

anniversary—

or even

death day,

for that matter.

And these extraordinary

ordinary dates

reverberate

on the page and

in our minds;

none of us escaping

the silent struggle

no one else can see;

more of us

in mourning

than you would ever know.

Recently

an ordinary,

unremarkable

winter’s day

was

(would have been)

my mother’s 100th birthday.

I proclaim her milestone

on Facebook

–the new village square–

a photo from our cross country drive

only months after my father died;

a widow at the age

I am now.

My mother turns toward the camera

a quintessential tourist pose,

the Grand Canyon behind her;

alone–

strong–

brave–

(or do I detect a rueful shadow in her half smile?)

Happy 100, Mama!

I hit post

and discover instantly

I am not done.

Suddenly galvanized

by the facts of her life,

I continue my exploration;

one by one

photo by photo

hour by hour

I recount the twists and triumphs

of 95 years.

With each addition,

a forgotten woman emerges,

my Mama.

And I realize:

until this day,

her last decade–

the decade of dementia–

had dominated my memories and

belied her life.

I had allowed the confusion, pain and grace of our final years

to become her whole story;

our whole story.

But she was so much more.

As I unbury my dead,

a chorus of cousins and friends

cheers my revelations–

helping me strike back

at a calendar filled with dread.

Dates loom large;

on the 100th anniversary of my mother’s birth

her story challenged my grief;

my sorrow finally tempered by

understanding,

pride,

and yes, even

giddy excitement.

That evening

my husband took me to dinner;

we raised our glasses high in the air

the end of an extraordinary ordinary day

Here’s to you, Mama

what a life—

happy 100!

 

nothing she did
or said

was quite
what she meant

but still her life
could be called a monument

shaped in a slant
of available light

and set to the movement
of possible music

(from “The Grandmother Cycle” by Judith Downing Converse Quarterly, Autumn)
 

 

A Swift Current A Day in the Life The Power of the Calendar

It’s My Birthday Too Yeah– Photo by Hallie Swift

 

They Say It’s Your Birthday, words and music by Lennon & McCartney, All Rights Reserved.

The excerpt from The Grandmother Cycle is from the opening pages of one of my all-time favorite books, The Stone Diaries by Carol Shields, which explores the life of an “ordinary woman”…

Thank You For Remembering Me!

A tall thin woman slowly edged her walker into my mother’s room. Her long silver hair was pulled in a braid, revealing bright blue eyes and high chiseled cheekbones

Are you Hallie Swift?

Yes, I’m Hallie.

She reached into her pocket, grasping a shiny gold lipstick tube

I’m Dorothy

She raised her arm high in the air;

giggling as she waved the lipstick back and forth;

her voice light, melodic

Oh Hallie, I just love my lipstick. Thank you for remembering me!

Merry Christmas!

In her monthly newsletter,

the head nurse had issued a plea—

she needed

Secret Santas

for residents with no families;

she wanted everyone in the nursing home

to find a present under the tree.

My friends and I discussed our gifts

…chocolates and sweaters and books with large print and stuffed animals and baseball caps and comforters and…

Lipsticks for the ladies!

Lipstick?

Yes, my friend urged

after all, you never lose your vanity!

But let’s not give just one lipstick–

let’s get lipsticks for everyone!

So we asked friends coming to our Christmas party–

Please bring a lipstick for the ladies!

And with that, a tradition was born.

Year after year

we were showered with

Estee’s gorgeous reds, Chanel’s shimmering corals, Bobbi’s hot pinks;

small rectangular boxes adorned with bright paper and festive ribbons;

our own Christmas cornucopia–

we collected so many lipsticks;

I needed an extra suitcase for

the lipstick express!

On Christmas morning

each resident received

a beautiful little package–

Santa’s surprise!

A Swift Current Christmas lipstick for the ladies!

Lipstick! Photo by her granddaughter

The head nurse was effusive:

my residents are so happy–

And when my residents are happy, my nurses are happy–

And when my nurses are happy…

Well, girls, what can I say?

you made our Christmas!

And they made ours.

For many of us, the trip to buy lipsticks became a defining moment of our holiday season. One friend told me she and the Bloomingdale’s saleswoman shed tears as they selected the colors, then added every powder, polish and perfume sample in the department!

A small box;

a simple gesture;

the electricity of Christmas morning;

a gift

under the tree–

bright colors;

big smiles;

Dorothy.

Silver braid

melodic laugh

she waves her lipstick high in the air

Are You Hallie?

Thank you for remembering me.

Merry Christmas!

A Swift Current Christmas Surprise-Lipsticks for the Ladies

Thank you for remembering me! Photo by her granddaughter



A reader in Arkansas has decided to be “Hallie’s Lipstick Girl” (her words) for her local eldercare facility. Thank you for spreading the cheer! And Merry Christmas!

The beautiful woman in the photos is the mother of a friend from grammar school.  Thank you for permission to use these wonderful photos and thank you to my friend’s daughter for taking such gorgeous pictures.

Remember The Ladies (Reprise)

A Swift Current Remember the Ladies--Christmas Owl Tree

The Owl Christmas Tree–Just Because–Photo by Hallie Swift

The head nurse was concerned.

She knew many of her residents had outlived family and friends.

She knew

come Christmas morning

many of her residents would not find gifts under the tree.

Determined to end their disappointment,

she issued an appeal:

WE NEED SECRET SANTAS!

Eagerly accepting the assignment,

my friends and I started to plan—

but what do you need at 90?

Chocolates and sweaters and books and stuffed animals and comforters and…

You need lipstick!

Lipstick?

Yes, urged my friend,

after all, you never lose your vanity.

She was inspired.

But let’s not give just one lipstick–

let’s get lipsticks for everyone!

And in our annual Christmas party invitation,

we issued our own appeal.

Instead of a hostess gift,

we included a specific request:

Please bring a lipstick for the ladies!

And a tradition was born.

That year,

and every subsequent year,

we were showered with

gorgeous reds, shimmering corals, hot pinks;

a cornucopia of small rectangular boxes

adorned with festive ribbons and bright paper.

Our friends were enthusiastic–

I even needed an extra suitcase for

the lipstick express!

And Christmas morning,

when the nurses presented our beautiful little packages to the residents,

the response

was electric

(you never lose your vanity!).

The head nurse was effusive:

you made my residents happy–

And when my residents are happy, my nurses are happy–

And when my nurses are happy…

Well, you made our Christmas!

And girls—

Estee Lauder; Elizabeth Arden, Chanel…?

My ladies are beside themselves;

you girls are too much!

Wayne Thiebald, Lipstick (detail), 1964

Wayne Thiebald, Lipstick (detail), 1964

But actually, our friends were too much. They gave us elegant brands in luscious colors, lovingly selected and carefully wrapped. One friend reported that she and the saleswoman chose lipsticks with tears in their eyes—then added every powder, polish and hand cream sample in the department. Even friends who couldn’t attend the party joined the lipstick brigade.

I wish they could have seen the smiles.

A few days after Christmas, a resident approached me; her eyes wide and glistening; her beautiful grey hair pulled back in a long braid.

Are you Hallie?

She reached into her pocket and produced a lipstick.

She giggled as she waved it high in the air;

her voice light, girlish, melodic;

I’m Dorothy.

I just love my lipstick. Thank you!

The pleasure was ours.

For many of us, the trip to buy lipstick became a defining moment of our holiday season. Some friends even continue the tradition; now taking lipsticks to their local nursing homes.

And recently

a friend told me

she always thinks of my mom

this time of year;

I say a little prayer

for your mom…

remembering the lipsticks of years gone by…

Remember The Ladies.

A Swift Current Vuillard The Earthenware Pot

Merry Christmas from A Swift Current and Vuillard (Le Pot d’Argile 1895)

Take A Sad Song And Make It Better

A Swift Current Take A Sad Song and Make It Better

The Mother of the Artist Reading by Vuillard


…when his children finally talk him into moving her into a nursing facility near their home, Pasquale weeps with sorrow and guilt, but also with relief, and guilt for his relief, sorrow for his guilt… (from Beautiful Ruins by Jess Walter)

My Mother in a nursing home;

I was terrified.

Ripped from the headlines images

Seared in my brain.

My hands trembled;

my Mother in a nursing home;

unthinkable.

Her stay was meant to be short lived; just long enough to do therapy for her newly replaced knee.

But after surgery, dementia made its unanticipated, irreversible, full-throttle debut. The anesthesia had obliterated her mind. My Mother could no longer cover her missteps and misstatements.

My Mother could no longer care for herself.

We were completely unprepared. We knew nothing about her rights or our responsibilities. Armed with worry and trepidation, sorrow and guilt, we sought advice from social workers, clergy, doctors and friends.

The chorus was unanimous: see an eldercare attorney.

We peppered her with questions. What is the best home in Los Angeles…Should we move her east… How much does it cost…How do we ensure compassionate care…that she won’t be abused…that she will be safe?

From her well-heeled perch in a stylish office, the attorney offered one observation worth recounting. And while only partially accurate, her words shaped our decade:

It doesn’t matter where your mother lives; it doesn’t matter how much it costs.

She can be in the most expensive facility in the city and still

there is just one rule:

The only thing that matters is that your Mother has a visitor every day.

It is simple. It is inevitable.

If the staff thinks family or friends might show up, she will be the first to receive attention.

They must think someone is coming.

It was cynical; it made sense;

And from our perch in the east, we orchestrated our visitor-a-day strategy. We enlisted cousins, parishioners, work colleagues, even our high school teachers; generous friends all who incorporated visits with our Mother into their already busy lives.

And the backbone of our strategy: we continued to employ our Mother’s home aide. Hired part-time a few years earlier, Grace became an almost daily presence at the nursing home, devoting more hours than we could ever reward. She became an astute observer of my Mom’s condition; I relied on her eyes and ears. As my Mother succumbed to the ravages of dementia, Grace repeatedly experienced the worst of her dramatic mood swings,

And was back by her side the very next day.

While the staff might have anticipated Grace’s schedule, I never told them when I would arrive. I wanted to see my Mom without any special preparation; to catch them off guard if I possibly could. But time after time, I found my Mother dressed beautifully; hair combed; lipstick in place; participating in activities; dining with fellow residents.

As I watched the staff in action, I slowly began to trust them.

I watched as the head nurse began her day, moving bed to bed, consulting nurses, studying charts, holding hands; her serious purpose belied by the frequent sound of her crackling, big-hearted laughter.

I watched as her nurses juggled competing demands, gliding seamlessly through the halls; maintaining a quiet,steady pace; responding to call buttons that weren’t allowed to ring more than once.

I watched as nurses, therapists, aides, and social workers spoke to their patients in gentle, measured cadences; I never once heard a raised voice or frustrated tone.

I watched as janitors cleaned spills immediately and thoroughly, not masking smells with bleach, leaving no lingering odor.

I watched as the activities director greeted each resident by her formal name;

How are you this afternoon, Mrs. Swift?

She shared studies that guided her approach. Of course, it seems obvious that being welcomed into a room and addressed by your name could improve your mood, but when the new activities director introduced this simple innovation, the place became lively; invigorated; happy.

And when we commented on her enthusiastic efforts to entertain, engage, and stimulate her elderly charges, she responded with surprise

I love my job. I’ve wanted to work with old folks since I was young. When I’m home, I can’t wait for tomorrow.

Take a sad song and make it better.

I slowly began to understand that my Mom’s care was the result of an intangible mix of education and expertise, quality and depth, energy and commitment– available right there– at the nursing home.

And even late in the decade, when I thought I knew how to interact with my Mother, I came to realize that I did not begin to approach their level of understanding.

This reality was underscored a few days before our last Christmas. My Mom and I were visiting in the garden. She had gone inside for just a few minutes. As the attendant wheeled her back, my Mother became frenzied;

Where are my packages? My packages are missing!

What packages?

The packages that were sitting right here! Those are presents; presents for everyone!

Mama, there weren’t any packages.

Oh no OH NO. Hallie, you lost my packages!

My Mother began to cry.

Her imaginary packages were missing.

I thought I could handle it. I had been doing this for ten years, right? I ran to my Mom’s room, grabbed several boxes, and returned to the garden, announcing proudly,

Here they are! Here are your packages!

(Aren’t I clever?)

NO! Those aren’t my packages. You lost them YOU LOST THEM YOU LOST THEM!

My Mother sobbed

Now I won’t have Christmas presents for anyone!

I ran to the nurses’ office. I could not breathe.

She’s missing! Her packages! Not Real–Packages–Missing!

The charge nurse jumped out of her chair.

She raced to my Mother’s side.

What happened what happened what happened?

Head in her hands,

My packages.

My presents for everyone.

All gone.

Oh, I know where they are! The security guard took them to the safe. I saw them—they’re in the safe!

In the safe! THANK YOU THANK YOU! I thought they were lost.

The security guard has them. You will have presents for everyone.

I was speechless; astounded; grateful.

There was, of course,

no safe;

no security guard;

no packages.

There was, however, a resourceful, compassionate, quick-on-her-feet charge nurse.

(Take a sad song and make it better.)

As I watched the staff in action,

I embraced the unthinkable;

the nursing home was a great place;

my Mom received great care.

And yet

I never completely lost my fear.

I never forgot the attorney’s words;

Someone must visit her every day.

And despite all the good and caring and hard work I had witnessed,

my confidence was laced with doubt;

trust with an asterisk.

Was my Mother’s care the result of the attorney’s advice; our visitor-a-day strategy?

If we became less vigilant, would it change?

Or was my Mother’s nursing home simply run by efficient, compassionate, skilled professionals?

I think it was the latter;

Door number 3;

I want to believe.

I do.

But

my advice is straightforward:

(it’s the only thing that matters)

go see her;

(she will be the first to get attention)

every day you can;

(they must think someone is coming)

Every single day if you can;

Then you will start to make it better.

A Swift Current  Take A Sad Song and Make It Better

Someone Must Visit…this painting by Pissarro is evocative of all those afternoons…

Beautiful Ruins copyright 2012 by Jess Walter, published in 2012 by HarperCollins. Beautiful Ruins is a fascinating novel which has nothing to do with nursing homes, but of course I found the one passage that applies and like the rest of Jess Walter’s writing, captures the emotion.

The title and closing line is of course taken from Hey Jude, words and music by John Lennon and Paul McCartney, copyright 1968 Sony/ATV Music Publishing. International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved.

Remember The Ladies

 ATTENTION: WE NEED SECRET SANTAS!

This all-points-bulletin appeared in the nursing home newsletter.  And it had never occurred to me; while we were busy attending to our Mother’s needs and wishes, there were people all around her who no longer had family; no longer had friends; no longer would receive a gift on Christmas Day.

YES, we responded to the head nurse’s rallying cry. And a-shopping we went; chocolates and sweaters and books and stuffed animals and comforters and what else do you need when you’re ninety?

You need lipstick, a friend suggested.

Lipstick?

Of course; after all, you never lose your vanity.

She was inspired.

But instead of buying a few lipsticks; how about lipsticks for everyone?! And so, in our annual Christmas party invitation, we asked our friends to bring “a lipstick for the ladies.”

And every year, our friends generously purchased not one but several gorgeous lipsticks and carefully wrapped them in beautiful paper with festive ribbons. Together we showered the nursing home with deep reds, shimmering corals and hot pinks.

The response was electric.

The head nurse was effusive: you made our patients happy and when my patients are happy, my nurses are happy.  And when my nurses are happy, I am happy.  You made our Christmas!

She added:  And the ladies noticed the brands; Estee Lauder and Stila and Bobbie Brown and Elizabeth Arden.  You girls are too much!

But actually, it was our friends who were “too much.”  One friend told me that she and a Bloomingdale’s sales assistant both had tears in their eyes as they selected the lipsticks and then added every sample of powder, polish and hand cream they could find. And even friends who could not attend the party sent lipsticks for me to take to the ladies.

I wish they could have seen the smiles.

At the nursing home, an elderly woman approached me:

Are you Hallie Swift?

Uh…Yes.

I am Dorothy.

And out of her pocket she pulled a lipstick and waved it in the air. She giggled; light, melodic, girlish.

I just love my lipstick.  Thank you!

So much for being a Secret Santa…

This year several of my friends have told me they miss the tradition we had grown to relish. For many of us, the trip to buy lipstick became a defining moment of our Christmas season. One friend recently wrote to me:

I say a little prayer for your Mom as I write this, remembering lipsticks of years gone by…

Remember the ladies.

I’ll Be Home For Christmas

Preface This year I have been apprehensive about the approaching holidays; it is the first time that my husband and I are not traveling to Los Angeles.  Last Friday, I was planning to post my reflections when the horror in Connecticut engulfed all of us in a deep and profound sorrow.

In one of her original 1968 serigraphs, the artist Corita Kent prominently featured the words by Gabriel Marcel “We can only speak of hope.”  During this sad week, these words have become my mantra. In this spirit, I offer you the post originally intended for last Friday:

I’ll Be Home For Christmas

For the last twenty years, my husband and I have spent Christmas in sunny Southern California.

This year, for the first time, we are not boarding a plane bound for Los Angeles.

In the early years, I anticipated our pilgrimage across the country to see my Mother with a jumbled combination of hope and dread. Christmas in LA always loomed as the final duty in a year defined by obligations.

Every year Christmas week beckoned with the promise of a brief respite from anxious clients, corporate crises, and imminent deadlines. Surrounded by the lights and festivities of Manhattan, year after year I dreamed about canceling our flights and staying home; Christmas, New York, and us– just us.

But every year we would pack our bags, board the plane, and head to my childhood home.

In the early years, I tried to balance our need to unwind with my Mother’s gleeful expectation of fun-filled activities with her offspring.  And every year, as the week drew to a close, I felt defeated. For my Mom, who had anticipated our reunion with such fervent longing, the week had gone by too fast.  For us, numbed by exhaustion, it had become little more than yet another exercise in checking tasks off a list.

And suddenly we were right back in our If-I-Can-Make-It-Here world of clients and crises and deadlines.

“Did you have a good vacation?”

“Oh yes, wonderful.”

But then my Mother’s world shifted on its axis, and with it, our Christmas. For the next ten years, we headed to Christmas in LA, but not to my childhood home. For the next ten years, we headed to a nursing home.

In the beginning, we were convinced that our Mother’s nursing home stay was just a temporary detour. I viewed our new surroundings with apprehension and even disdain; we might be here but we don’t belong here; our Mother is going home. During those visits, I stared straight ahead, barely heeding the other patients; my husband sat in the garden with a book and a come get me when you need me expression.

But my Mother did not go home.  And over time, the Christmas sojourn to LA took on a new imperative; imbued with unforeseen joys to be had only in the small, enclosed world of people living their final days.

At the nursing home, we were surrounded by the basic pleasures of the season: crafts and cards made by local kindergarten children; the communal TV blaring Miracle on 34th Street at FULL volume; a therapy dog stoically outfitted with reindeer antlers; sugar cookies served with fruit punch; fire department-approved decorations covering every available surface; carols sung by enthusiastic musicians; nurses, orderlies, social workers and volunteers working steadily to ensure all was calm, all was bright.

Over the years, I grew to love Christmas at the nursing home.

I loved spending Christmas week with the people who took care of my Mother with patience and care and skill and yes, I think even love. I was in awe of the front desk administrator who stopped by her room every evening to wish her a good night; the aide who carefully selected her outfits–complete with matching socks; the activities director who convinced her to join the festivities; the dietician who always remembered her preferences; the maintenance worker who, knowing she thought he was a beloved nephew, visited her every day; the social worker who calmed her frenzied outbursts by enlisting her ‘help’ in the office (“but,” my Mother informed me “I don’t get a paycheck”); the nurses who efficiently addressed every need and quietly reassured her: your daughter is on her way.

And I loved spending Christmas with my Mother; her wishes fulfilled; her delight apparent even during the toughest years.

We belonged there.

And during those years my husband and I developed our own traditions for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day; after several hours at the nursing home, we continued our celebration; joyous times with extended family and friends who became our new family.  Bleary-eyed and happily exhausted, we enjoyed good food and good friends; our new home away from home.

Home.

This year we are not boarding a plane.  This year we are not heading to LA.

This year, I’ll be home for Christmas.

If only in my dreams…

 A Swift Current || My Mother's Last Christmas Eve View from the Nursing Home December 24, 2009

My Mother’s Last Christmas Eve
View from the Nursing Home
Photo by Hallie Swift