Jeff Belden

[originally posted June 3 2011, 3:49 AM]

Bill and Iris Belden got married in London Mills, Illinois 61 years ago today. My grandfather, Granville Arthur Belden, a United Brethren minister officiated.

It's a bittersweet celebration. Iris has been wanting to come home from the hospital all week. Bill has been missing her, and concerned that she is sleeping okay without him. He keeps reaching over in bed at night to touch her, only to discover she's not there.

Their three children, myself among them, have emailed, texted, conference called, uploaded, and otherwise collaborated to usher their aging parents into the next era of their lives together.

Mom will enroll in hospice care today, with an uncertain diagnosis but a clear enough final trajectory. She never did talk a lot, so the clues to her decline only emerged in detail from the wonderful staff at McDonald's in Altamont, Illinois. Marilyn and Nancy deserve special mention, though I'm sure there are others that are as concerned and caring.

They'll have two new friends none of us have met yet, living with them as constant care-givers. Dad will talk their ears off in a smiling and most engaging way. They'll be at home together, which is what they always wanted. My parents weren't real demonstrably affectionate (common in their generation), so I've seen dad kiss mom on the lips more this week than I did in the 18 years of growing up in their home.

So Happy Anniversary, folks. Enjoy every moment for the rest of your lives.

[originally posted June 5 2011, 5:18 AM]

She's been known as "The Cookie Lady", Toots, Mom, and her given name Iris.

The Toots nickname might have originated from Barney Deckert, a welder who owned a shop along 3rd street. The heavy wooden sliding door on his workplace was always half open, revealing a dark and ominous deep room. We'd walk by there often, and I'd peer in to only see deep black. One day I was startled by Barney suddenly emerging in his other-worldly oiled overalls and mask flipped up on his head. That darkness was where I learned to be afraid of the unseeable. It's an archetypal image in my brain even now.

She was always good at baking things. Yeast rolls or cinnamon rolls were left to rise atop the heater duct in the utility room just off the kitchen. Warmth and patience were the lesson. In later years, she became reknowned for her delicious chocolate chip cookies. No duels, but some ferocious auction bids for her cookies, for which she sometimes bartered for services. Mostly though, she gave them away freely to the kids at school sporting events or to church events. Cookie Lady.

She kept the house tidy. She was so efficient that if I put something on the kitchen counter, and then ran to the bathroom, I'd find it was already put away when I came out. It used to irritate me. Now I'm the one tidying her house. I find that my compulsive efforts sometimes cross over the line, too.

[originally posted May 26 2012, 5:27 AM]

I'm returning to my hometown of St. Elmo IL to tend to some family business. I thought of it as sorting through a bunch of hoarded junk in the garage and upstairs of my parents' house. After some reflection this morning, I'll think of it as a treasure hunt instead. 

This house is a sacred place where I was lovingly taught important values that have shaped me for the better. It was a place of security and safety, and of modest abundance. My mother died almost a year ago, and my father moved soon thereafter to a nursing home because of his dementia. The house has been empty of inhabitants but is still full of memories. 

So when I'm lifting heavy scraps of metal, or sorting through endless small boxes stuffed with napkins, receipts, and plastic grocery bags, I'll remind myself that it's the treasure we find that makes it worthwhile. It may come in the form of a precious photo tucked inside a book, a diary of our grandfather's final days, or merely a recollection of simpler times. 

All told, instead of a chore, I'll see it as an adventure -- a treasure hunt.

[originally posted April 1 2012, 10:51 AM]

My father returned from military duty in post-war Japan and moved to St. Elmo to join his older brothers in the working world. There he met a lovely young woman named Iris who was working behind the soda fountain in the local drugstore. The first time they met, he asked her to make a peanut butter milkshake. It was the best milkshake ever. 

Because he has dementia, I hear some of these stories quite often and they have taken on iconic meaning. Every time he points to the high school graduation photo of my mother on his dresser, he reminds me of the peanut butter milkshake. 

So when we decided to visit his home in St. Elmo this weekend for what may be one of the last times in my father's life, we decided to keep it simple. We would visit his house, go to the cemetery to see my mother's grave, and invite his sister Alyce to come and meet with us there. That would be enough. 

My brother and sister and I had worried that taking dad from the nursing home back to visit his house would stir up his old desire to just move back Home Alone. We figured we would have to listen to pleadings that he knew how to drive, had dozens of neighbors who could help out, and just needed to get back home to Take Care of Things. 

It turns out our fears were unjustified. The weather was beautiful, we were all in a great mood, we ran into other family and friends, and enjoyed a delightful walk among the wildflowers at nearby Ballard Nature Center. He did not beg to stay home. 

Mid-afternoon, I had an idea. We stopped at the Altamont Dairy Bar for a commemorative peanut butter shake. Not wanting to spoil our supper (planned for the delightful Firefly Grill in Effingham), we asked for 6 straws and one shake. It was delicious. We hadn't really planned on the peanut butter shake. Not everyone wanted a sip. There was plenty to go around. It was even better for being shared. 

The day was a success in every way. And it was the second best milkshake ever.