Taking
Care of Aging Parents
Genealogy: The Legacy of
Cynthia Anne
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to article)
John
Gaw Meem: The Father of Santa Fe Style
Imagine
arriving in Santa Fe in 1920. Hardly a paved road. No tall buildings. No zoning
laws or building codes. Just notorious Wild West characters, flamboyant artists
and colorful Native Americans. And these wonderful little mud houses that
everyone lived in.
The timing couldn't
have been better.
At the age of 26, a man by the name of John Gaw Meem arrived in town. Having
been diagnosed with tuberculosis, he checked in at the Sunmount Sanitarium.
Not sure where exactly he had landed, coming from the East, it didn't take
him long to become enamored with the richness of the sky, the rolling piñon
hills, the sweet smell of smoke in the winter air. Certainly his eye caught
the flowing grace of those little mud houses everyone lived in, and like many
before him and since, Meem fell in love with Santa Fe.
And today the Santa Fe style, that architectural distinction that truly sets the town apart and stirs the imagination, can safely be attributed to John Gaw Meem. Next week, as part of a fundraising campaign for the Historic Santa Fe Foundation, a tour will showcase four of the exclusive houses Meem designed for local residents.
Cultural historian, Chris Wilson, who lives in Albuquerque said in a recent phone interview, "Meem is really up there with Georgia O'Keeffe, Maria and Julian Martinez, Edgar Lee Hewett, Oliver La Farge and others who made Santa Fe what is it."
As if all determined ahead of time, Meem's early upbringing laid the foundation for his life's work. Born to missionary parents in Brazil in 1894, Meem's early command of English, Portuguese and German made it easy for him to pick up Spanish. Wilson, who is writing a book about Meem, said that growing up in a Latin culture enabled Meem to understand the unspoken subtleties of the cultures and proportions of the buildings in Santa Fe.
While in his teens,
Meem entered Virginia Military Institute and earned a degree in civil engineering.
Then he worked for his uncle's engineering firm that was constructing the
subway system in New York City. During WWI, Meem trained recruits in Iowa
and after the war returned to Brazil, hoping for a career in banking. Within
a few months, though, he was diagnosed with tuberculosis. Told to enter a
sanitarium, Meem, dejected and at a loss as to where to go, was lured by a
railroad poster of New Mexico. On a whim he bought a ticket for Santa Fe.
"Doctors at the sanitarium encouraged patients to pursue their interests,
not merely wait to get well," Wilson explained. Having studied engineering,
Meem tried his hand at designing houses and once his health was restored,
headed for Denver in 1923 to study architecture. Two years later and armed
with the rudiments of architectural design, Meem returned to Santa Fe and
opened shop.
Now ensconced in the Santa Fe scene, Meem quickly caught the political gist
of things, a familiar struggle even today: one group promoting progress, another
wanting to preserve what attracted people in the first place. Meem took the
forefront of the preservationists, and one of his first jobs was rallying
supporters for a Committee for the Preservation and Restoration of New Mexico
Mission Churches (CPRNMMC).
This became Meem's mission period, restoring five churches at Laguna, Zia, Santa Ana, Acoma and Trampas. In retrospect this undertaking also seems fitting. At the age of fourteen, Meem watched his father design and supervise the construction of a new church. The CPRNMMC finally bought the Santuario de Chimayo as a way to protect it. An organization called Cornerstones, founded by Meem's daughter, Nancy Meem Wirth, is still dedicated to the preservation of old New Mexico churches.
In 1927 he was commissioned to remodel the La Fonda Hotel. Too dark inside, too confining on the outside, Meem opened the lobby to the inner patio and enlivened the outside, keeping to the prevailing regional forms.
Slowly Meem landed jobs designing houses, one being for the writer, Mary Austin. But it wasn't until Mary Vilura Conkey commissioned him to do a house that his career began to take off.
Meem, who all his life had a great following of older, affluent women, had met Conkey at the sanitarium. She had grand plans for a house, and in 1928, Meem eagerly took up the challenge. Many of the details, one being parapets pulling inward to soften the silhouette, are reminiscent of Trampas, a favorite little town of Meem's.
"Most of Meem's
work centers around two local styles of architecture," said Wilson, explaining
that Spanish-Pueblo Revival has the vigas, beams and rounded corners, and
Territorial Revival has the brick cornices, white painted windows and tall
posts, and crisp corners.
"He often worked both styles into the same design," Wilson said.
The house he built
in 1938 for himself and his wife, Faith, is a perfect example of this combination.
Sited on 400 acres on then the outskirts of the city, Meem took existing buildings
and brought them together with a deep portal.
Today, his daughter lives in the house. "He called it the quintessential
fixer-upper," Wirth laughed, holding up an early photo of a ramshackle
stone building.
She remembers her father as a "very busy man", one who was also
formal and liked routine. "He liked a pattern in his day. One of the
things we did together while I was growing up was walk the dogs every afternoon.
It was a relaxed time for conversation," she said. Meem also enjoyed
reading deep philosophical books before and after dinner.
The list of commissions during Meem's 34-year career is impressive: the Fine Arts Center in Colorado Springs, over 35 buildings for the University of New Mexico, and the McCurdy Day School in Santa Cruz. He designed Tex Austin's dude ranch in Rowe, later bought by Greer Garson, as well as Fuller Lodge in Los Alamos.
And Santa Fe, of course, has many landmarks bearing his personal touch: the Laboratory of Anthropology, the Santa Fe Indian School, and the Museum of International Folk Art. He also designed the Holy Faith Episcopal Church and redesigned the plaza. His records list 654 commissions. Among those are numerous houses, most in Santa Fe with a few located in Albuquerque, Taos and Colorado Springs.
At the beginning of Upper Canyon Road stands Cristo Rey Church, a massive structure with soothing lines and a tower that recalls the church in Acoma. Built in 1939, it's a Meem showpiece.
Wirth recounted
a story about that particular project. "He left town
during the construction, telling his partner not to use straw in the adobe.
When he returned the project was way behind schedule. The crews didn't want
to make adobe without straw. It just wasn't done that way. So he said, 'OK,
let's use straw.' Enthusiasm for the project picked up immediately."
After his retirement
in 1959, Meem dedicated himself even more to
committees and boards that worked toward the good of the community. He was
instrumental in getting a historic zoning ordinance passed; however, in 1961
the demolition of the Nusbaum house for a parking lot fueled Meem to start
the Historic Santa Fe Foundation (HSFF), an organization for the preservation
of old buildings. To further the cause he and Faith bought several old houses
in order to preserve them. Today HSFF maintains seven properties and offers
preservation easements as another way to protect historic buildings.
Meem's grandson, Peter Wirth, a lawyer and current chairman of the HSFF board, continues with his mother, Nancy Meem Wirth to preserve the elements that make Santa Fe the distinctive town that it is.
"My father
did what he did for the people who lived in the town," Wirth
said. "It's wonderful to see so many newcomers picking up the spirit
of
Santa Fe and working to maintain that spirit."
Meem died in 1983
at the age of 89, leaving a legacy that will forever be the signature of Santa
Fe: those soft, graceful little mud houses that everyone lives in.
(This
article appeared in The New Mexican.)
Taking
Care of Aging Parents
Back
in the olden days, back when several generations lived together under one
roof, growing old meant you'd be taken care of. It was a given. Something
you could rely on. Not anymore. With our society becoming ever more mobile,
parents often live hundreds if not thousands of miles away. And caring for
those parents as they become less able has nearly become part of the mid-life
passage.
"I grew up hearing stories of how my mother as a child peeked through the crack in the door to her great grandmother's room," said Sarah Zolich, 57, of Santa Fe. "Her parents were older and when she was 21, Mom took care of her father, her aunt, her grandfather."
So when Zolich's
mother, 82, became ill last year, being with her was all part of the family
story. Still, it wasn't easy. "I quit my job and went
to Wisconsin for six months while I mid-wifed my mother through her death."
Zolich is not alone. Statistics show 34 million Americans are 65 years old or older. By 2020 the number will reach 53 million. And for the grown children of those aging Americans, the subject of caring for parents crops up more and more in conversations, in news reports, in articles in just about any type of magazine. It is a pressing issue and a real worry-emotionally and financially along with adjusting lives to actually be there physically with parents. There's not doubt about it. The impact is enormous.
"I often wondered who would take care of my mother when she became old," said Stephany Hamrill. "Now I know. It's me. I'm the only one who could loosen myself to do this. And I no longer have a life."
Hamrill, a New
Mexico teacher for six years, went to visit her mother last June in Los Angeles.
Slowly over the past several years her mother had been failing. Last summer
the condition became critical. "She couldn't remember a thing and every
day we had to go over the same things again and again.
She couldn't remember to take her medicine or which ones to take when,"
said Hamrill. "I'd write it down, but that didn't help."
Finally in August,
Hamrill didn't renew her teaching contract with Rio Rancho High School. "I
gave up renting a beautiful house in Jemez Springs to live in my mother's
apartment in downtown Los Angeles," she said. With a voice laden with
heavy emotion she spoke long distance about her ordeal. "I recently put
Mom in a board and care home that's local enough so I can see her daily. I'm
helping her make the transition, but it's not easy for either of us. I still
haven't found a job. I have no friends here."
Her mother recently turned 90, is scared she's losing her eyesight and afraid
she's losing her mind. She is aware enough to know things are slipping. A
grill on the air cooler in her new room has made her anxious. "She's
afraid someone can see in," said Hamrill.
In Hamrill's assessment her mother did not do a good job a parent. "I have deep emotional scares from her abandonments, but I'm going to do this. Someone has to."
This seems to be the recurring theme for the men and women who now find themselves in the position of caring for a parent, whether that parent is considered a loved one or not. Zolich also had a complicated relationship with her mother. She wouldn't have called them close by any means. Still, she felt called to the task and she met it.
Mitchell Sanders, a native of Arizona whose brother lives in Albuquerque, said by phone, "Annoying doesn't count. You can't not do this because your parents annoy you. You have to rise above that."
It was only a few years ago when Sanders, a shoe salesman in Phoenix, realized his parents were old. "Hip, sophisticated, educated, well traveled they'd always been so active. Then Dad started having some heart problems. Then Mom started having some breathing problems. They live close by and I began making a few more trips to their house each week."
Sanders, whose
parents are in their late-80s, visits them about four days a week now to help
with various chores. They still live in the same house where Sanders and his
brother grew up. When the medication began affecting the muscles in his father's
legs, Sanders said he put an escalator on the stairs.
"The roles become reversed watching your parents grow old. I get a lump
in my throat when I think of how my father used to carry me on his shoulders
up the stairs. Now I help him up the stairs," Sanders said. "But
what's hardest is seeing them sad that they're at the end of their lives."
For Sanders, 61, what it all comes down to is "Honoring your Father and your Mother." He says unless your parents are really evil there is no alternative than to take care of them when the time comes. What he has discovered in the process is it makes him feel better.
"There is tremendous joy in taking care of my parents. You come out of your own life into a larger circle of caring," he said. "Your own inner growth as a person comes into play."
Even for Hamrill, who still feels at odds with her mother, the situation calls for a larger task than staying embittered. "She did the best she could for who she is. But I'm on a mission. If I don't embrace forgiveness, my own life will be miserable. My life was not going well anyway so it's time I work on some deep issues," she said.
All feelings and resentments aside, the two biggest obstacles facing caregivers of elderly parents is finances and fatigue. According to Loranne Burkey, director of the adult day care program at Open Hands in Santa Fe, "Finding affordable help, whether it's in your home or in a nursing home, is a big problem. Home health care runs around $12 an hour and that adds up quickly. If you can't afford it, some family member will need to take on responsibility."
She says when faced with providing round the clock care, caregivers become exhausted. "They don't get enough sleep. A caregiver can put up with anything if they get enough sleep." The constant monitoring of medication, the constant underlying worry quickly brings on fatigue. Anger builds, resentment mounts.
What Burkey's organization does for aging parents who are still mobile and able enough to participate in group settings is offer a respite for the caregiver. "They can work, they can get some sleep," Burkey said.
Though lack of sleep and dwindling finances are what many adult children face, what becomes the real turning point for the elderly is giving up their driving licenses. John Lang, a counselor in Santa Fe says it's a major loss for a parent when they can no longer drive. "It becomes a rite of passage in their decline," he said.
Hamrill's mother refused to give hers up. But two years ago when her erratic driving was scaring family members, Hamrill consigned her mother's doctor to help. The license symbolizes freedom and independence and it's difficult to let those go. It's hard for anyone to admit they need help, are unable, and becoming dependent. Sanders, in the three years he's been caring for his parents has put together a Parent's Bill of Rights that addresses the issue of treating elderly parents with understanding and giving them some dignity as they move into old age. Some of the highlights are:
1. Be patient.
Take your time in communicating. Resist the urge to talk down to sssthem.
2. Become involved in vital aspects of their medical/physical care. Ask questions
sssabout any and all procedures and prescriptions.
3. Try to utilize humor whenever possible. Many older folks can be
sssdelightfully self-deprecating and continue
to see life's absurdities. There can sssstill
be plenty to laugh at.
4. Be in the "now and present" with your parents. Never allude to
a future time ssswithout them.
5. Do little things that please them.
6. Don't start trying to appropriate any of their possessions or assets
sssjust because you think they 'don't need them
anymore.' They deserve life's ssscontinuity for
as long as they live.
A year ago Rene Mushen of Santa Fe went back to Pennsylvania with her husband to move her parents here. Her father was completely opposed to leaving his home of 40 years. But at 80 he was having trouble with the details of daily living.
"Now he thinks it's the greatest thing going," she said. She arranged for them to live Santa Fe's Kingston Residence in the independent quarters, though her father does have Alzheimer's. The move has made it easier on everyone. Mushen spends about two hours a day with her parents.
"We'll go
run errands, sit and talk, I'll take them places," said Mushen, whose
decision to make other living arrangement for her parents was simple. Something
needed to be done. For other people, though, needing to put a parent into
a nursing home is not easy.
"It's difficult to come to this point," said Doris Krause of Santa
Fe, who has been leading support groups for caregivers for 15 years. "Over
the years you've heard your parents say, 'I never want to go into a nursing
home.' Then when it's the only option left, the guilt can be awful."
Susan Slater, a mystery writer who lives in Albuquerque, said her parents, 89 and 90, are still living in the family home in Kansas. Her brother lives about six miles from them. "We're finding this really difficult. Our mother will be needing more help soon. Our father is very controlling and won't let her go to the doctor. She's showing signs of dementia. Do we override our father and move them out? Maybe we don't have the right to step in and take charge. This is their life. Do they have a right to live it the way they see fit?"
Her parents will soon be celebrating their 72nd wedding anniversary. They are used to each other and used to their routines. Her father still putters around in his garden and that's important to him and good for him. But her mother, an accomplished pianist, has stopped playing. She's stopped going to the beauty parlor, something she did faithfully once a week for nearly her whole life. How much interference is acceptable from adult children when they see a change like this?
Ken Andrews, also of Albuquerque, left recently to live with his 84 year old mother for three months in Massachusetts. "She thinks of herself as a burden and doesn't want to put people out. But Ma has been having small strokes and my sister is staying nights with her," he said. His sister has lived next door to their mother for ten years. The past two years she's been checking on their mother every day.
"She needs a break. I'll help Ma get through the winter, get her through the holidays," said Andrews; and for him the timing couldn't have come at a better time. "For me it's a vacation." He's taking his camera and hoping to get back into photography. "I really need to get away from work."
Just as the dynamics in each family are different, the scenario of caring for an aging parent becomes as singular and individual as the people involved. It's a definite turning point in everyone's life, parents and children alike. The issues, the guilt, the struggles, the financial burdens become very authentic concerns. Unless children are completely estranged from their parents, caring for those parents will someday become a reality. And doing so will impact lives.
Authorities estimate that by next year 42 percent of the work force will become elder caregivers. Another estimate puts the numbers another way: 22.4 million households will have caregivers over the age of 50. And as people embark on the journey of slowly exchanging roles with their parents, it can only heighten ones awareness of the continuity of life.
As much as Hamrill hasn't particularly liked being around her mother, the time now is definitely one of deepening. "I need to have a sense of grace in my relationships. Caring for my mother is giving me that. I have to be compassionate. It was not easy making the decision to take her out of her home. But when we were looking around for support for all this, one day my mother actually said, 'There's so much you'll have to forgive me for.' Something is at work between us."
Hamrill says her life, though a little bleak now, is in some ways feeling enriched. It's exhausting and burdensome but says she's starting to listen to her body. "If I don't, something's going to crack. My mother discounted everything about the body. I'm walking the line between what's best for her and not sacrificing my sanity," Hamrill said. "But if I had a choice, I wouldn't be here. It's not the reality I would choose, but I have to be here."
When circumstances forced Zolich to become a caregiver, she says she was startled by the role. "I never thought my mother would be old," she said, "and I never thought I'd have to take care of her. I was exhausted all the time and resentful that my brother never showed up. My mother was not a good mother. I learned to fear touch from her, and there I was administering pills in her rectum. And I had to feed her. But I learned to love feeding her. Meals became a special time. It was a pretty amazing experience. I was quickly lifted beyond my petty little world into something much larger. I'm now a different person."
Caring for a parent can become anything anyone wants it to be. But taking the experience and turning it into an act of grace seems to be a common theme. And perhaps it's the same theme the many generations learned when living together under one roof. That being connected to others can be both trial and tribute, tribute to being part of the human family.
(This article article appeared in Crosswinds, a weekly magazine in Albuquerque.)
Genealogy: The Legacy of Cynthia Anne
Bananas and peaches
ripen in a cut crystal bowl that belonged to my maternal great grandmother,
Cynthia Anne. One of my favorite cast iron skillets was hers, too. I need
these things around me. They tie me to my past in a way that nothing else
does.
My mother often told stories around the dinner table when I was a child. Though
I knew them all by heart, I'd inch forward, eager to hear every word. "Tell
me again, tell me again," I'd plead whenever she finished telling about
Cynthia Anne.
This was the best
story of all. And my mother would tell again how Cynthia's parents signed
on with a wagon train heading West on the Oregon Trail in 1850. The stories
surrounding my great grandmother filled every inch of my mind. That I'd been
named for her made the stories even better.
As an adult, I often wondered who this woman was. Her story rippled with the
stuff of legends: Several husbands, an illegitimate child. One husband, the
story went, took away her horse and buggy. The narrative never left me. Then
after turning 44, I needed to know more. I needed details.
More than coincidence compelled me to take up genealogy. I believe something
began guiding me to a deep past. Divorced twice and now engaged to a man I
was having second thoughts about, I needed answers that eluded me. Tracing
my roots back to my great grandmother couldn't have come at a better time.
I'd researched my grandparents, but stopped short of the next step-searching
for Cynthia Anne. I needed her to be as I'd always imagined her, and was afraid
facts would distort the magic.
Instead, I found
a paper trail that led right to my heart. It was no accident we shared a name.
The Church of the Latter Day Saints holds vast genealogical resources, and
after my first visit to one of their Family History Centers, I spent months
tediously turning reel after reel of microfiche. The small finds kept me going:
A paternal great grandmother listed as a child in a census. A file containing
my grandfather's deed. Though I endlessly hit dead-ends, the more I dug the
deeper the connections became. Sometimes it actually felt as if Cynthia were
nearby, as if my pursuit was calling her to me. Piece by piece, details began
filling in the outline.
The story continued:
Six weeks after the wagon train left Missouri, Indians attacked it. Just before
the attack, my great great grandparents placed their baby in an empty rain
barrel for safety. Both the baby's parents were killed. The family bible lists
May 1, 1850. Another family took Cynthia Anne to Oregon and raised her. All
the other details were lost, except that at 17, Cynthia returned to relatives
in Illinois.
When my mother was small, she hid in a doorway once and listened to hushed
voices. "Her first husband kicked her out when she was pregnant with
another man's child," she eventually passed on to me. With only that
sliver of information, I sent off for a divorce decree. And got it. In 1883,
Cynthia Anne filed suit against Stewart Price on the grounds of "extreme
and repeated cruelty." She received no alimony and signed an affidavit
stating she couldn't claim any of the farm. Cynthia Anne got out with $200
and her life. And took back her maiden name, Black.
After uncovering that fact, I sent for their 1880 marriage certificate. The first time I saw Cynthia's handwriting, it transported me back more than a century. This was the closest I'd ever been. Now she was for real. Her hand looped with ease the way I've always enjoyed writing my given name. But the fluidity stopped before her new last name. In exchanging Black for Price, she may have known the cost. She spelled her new name with a small 'p'; the rest of the letters followed tight and small. Three years later she was divorced and pregnant.
Undoubtedly, at
that time, the whole county knew and scorned her. She didn't crumble. She
had her child, and a man seven years younger, George Presson, offered to marry
her. At 33, Cynthia signed again, squeezing the letters P-r-e-s-s-o-n into
formidable shapes. The signature crushes to the paper as she pressed on with
her life.
My mother told me many stories about Cynthia Anne. One of my favorites revealed
how she'd sneak into the barn at night to harness up her horse to slip into
town for some fun. But her husband, George quickly put a stop to those shenanigans.
She was a hard one to keep down on the farm, and I seem to have inherited
the legacy. For weeks, as I contemplated my own engagement, I kept Cynthia
Anne's divorce papers on a counter. They seemed to emanate a measure of guidance
as I sifted through my own doubts.
Finally, I had to admit I was considering getting married again just for security. It didn't seem all that different from the 1880s. The message I heard from Cynthia Anne was distant but sincere: Don't bend to custom if it's not true to your heart. It was easier staying single in the 1990s; so, finally, I said no to my own offer of marriage.
I have three photos of Cynthia Anne, my favorite taken just before she died in 1927 at the age of 77. Large bosomed, wide hipped, a light shawl draped across her shoulders, she and a neighbor girl are holding hands with a doll. Cynthia Anne's eyes show a mischievous glint, a playfulness still soaring through her. Despite hardships her entire life, she maintained a streak of whimsy. I want to think both our wrinkled faces are from laugh lines.
For years a name in the family Bible baffled me: Mary Daggett, born 1830, died 1867. Then I received a copy of Cynthia Anne's death certificate. It listed the name as her mother, which further confused me as her parents' name was Black. Then I got it. Twenty years old in 1850 when the wagon train pulled out of St. Jo, Missouri, Mary Daggett was the young woman who reached into the rain barrel and lifted out a crying two-month old baby girl, the little girl whose life eventually reached into mine.
As a child I needed Cynthia Anne's story; it shaped an inner identity. As an adult it guided me to my own legacy; and following its threads, I learned I belong to a long line of women with a willingness to set out for new territory, whether across the plains or in the heart.
(A version of this article first appeared in Frontier Magazine, which wanted a more sanitized version. For this website I reinstated that Cynthia Anne's baby was illegitimate. I like the truth. No one knows the lineage of my grandmother, but her father was Indian or Mexican- a small darkhaired man, or so the rumors went.)
