Cindy Downes

Dreams and Thorns

noreply@blogger.com (Cindy Downes) — Fri, 24 Jul 2026 23:06:30 +0000

Dreams and Thorns by Cindy Downes (July 24, 2026)

“Your dreams will come true in August.” Thus proclaimed the fortune cookie I opened today at my FLAMS group luncheon. The problem is that I don’t have dreams.

Perhaps life has robbed me of dreams or life challenges has taught me that dreams are fairy tales. I tend to take a more realistic view of life.

I’m an avid practitioner of the Stoic philosophy which goes along with our other writing prompt, “Accept that you can’t control everything; let go.”

I find that life is easier to manage when I discard ideas of dreams coming true and instead focused on accepting what life brings me and then making the best of it. To help me remember this, I hung four wall plaques in my apartment that contain the following words which I read almost daily:

1. Accept what is.

2. Let go of what was.

3. Have faith in what will be.

4. Believe in yourself.

These reminders keep me grounded when dreams crash and life exposes the thorns of daily living. Then I say to myself,

· “I can only control myself.”

· “I am not responsible for how others act or think.”

· “I am only responsible for how I respond to them.”

So, August . . .

No, I don’t have dreams for August. Instead, I choose to live each day as if it were my last. I’m going to enjoy the air I breathe, the people with whom I interact, and the activities which I pursue.

As the inevitable thorns reach out to prick me, I will continue to push through, carefully; and, come what may, exit on the other side, hopefully, mostly unscathed.

Do I have goals? Yes, of course I do. But goals to me aren’t dreams. Goals are based on what I believe about myself – what I can accomplish. Not some fantastical dream that is unrealistic.

So, the bottom line is this: I am looking forward to August and to every month after that, fortune cookie or not.

Grief is strange. Not at all how I imagined it.

noreply@blogger.com (Cindy Downes) — Tue, 13 Jan 2026 08:58:00 +0000

For instance, I’ve developed an aversion to going into Houston. I didn’t realize it until a friend suggested we visit a museum downtown. The thought set me into a panic, but I didn’t know why.

In the middle of the night, I woke and realized I can’t go anywhere that connects me to Bill’s memory.

I tried to drive through Houston the other day to reach the north side and visit his memorial site. I went the wrong direction. I hit roadblocks. Someone nearly hit me and it began to rain. It was as if the was universe was saying, “Don’t go there right now.” So, I turned around and came home.

Grief has paralyzed me from traveling to Houston.

My cousins wanted to visit me in April – something I’d looked forward to since I moving to Galveston. We began making plans. Then they called to confirm dates before booking travel and I panicked. I couldn’t do it. Why? I’m not sure. It just felt overwhelming. So, I told them not to come.

Grief has paralyzed me from enjoying company from out of town.

When Bill first passed, 90% of my income stopped. I was sure I’d end up on the street. I began looking for a job, cutting expenses, and reading everything I could about saving and investing.

Should I leave my beautiful new apartment? Stay here and get a job? Start a home business? Maybe I should move somewhere cheaper – off the island or even out of state?

Now, almost two months later, I see my finances more clearly. I am financially strong. I have less, yes, but it’s more than enough for my needs. There’s no need to panic. I can stay where I am and enjoy a good life.

And yet I woke in the middle of the night worrying about spending too much money on a Sam’s Club order and how I could return it on my way to see Bill.

Oh, I don’t do that anymore.

Grief has paralyzed me from thinking logically.

They tell me this will gradually pass, and I believe it will. In the meantime, I have a message that pops up on my phone every day, “Don’t make any decisions.”

So that’s what I’m doing—making no big decisions. Taking one day at a time. Waiting for my heart to heal.

That’s what grief is.

How long does grief last?

noreply@blogger.com (Cindy Downes) — Wed, 31 Dec 2025 12:01:00 +0000

I’m grieving today. . .

I thought I’d get through this quickly; after all, I’d been grieving for years. But that grief was tangled with everything else that came with being a caregiver: worry, stress, resentment, fear, sadness, and loneliness.

Now all that remains is sadness. Loneliness. Anger at myself for not being a better wife. Regret that we never got to enjoy the retirement we imagined.

When my thoughts return to him, they go back to our early years of marriage, when life felt expansive—our travels, our closeness, his gentle care for me, and my joy in taking care of him: cooking his favorite foods, making a home he was proud of.

I remember the long drives across the country, stopping at small diners, searching for out-of-the-way bookstores where I could buy children’s books from ages past. He would drive and drive while I sat back and watched the scenery. That was our favorite thing—to enjoy the countryside, share simple meals, and talk.

This ending was not what I wanted. I wanted a happily-ever-after. I wanted us to grow old together and pass away peacefully after a long, shared life. That was not to be.

Instead, I am left with fragments of a marriage that was once good, and later heartbreaking.

Slowly, the hard years are fading, and I am grateful. They are not worth holding onto. We had so many good years—just not enough. . .

A New Writing Adventure

noreply@blogger.com (Cindy Downes) — Sat, 27 Dec 2025 11:45:00 +0000

I thought I would end this blog, but I've decided to keep writing in it. In the meantime, I have started a new blog called, The Single-Serving Life on Substack where I focus on cooking for one, mostly. Here is the link if you are interested.

The Single-Serving Life

Simple ideas for enjoying life on your own.

Final Resting Place

noreply@blogger.com (Cindy Downes) — Tue, 16 Dec 2025 22:22:00 +0000

On December 15, 2025, my children and I laid Bill to rest. We gathered for a simple military service at the Houston Veterans Memorial, where his urn now rests in the memorial wall. There was comfort in the simplicity, and gratitude for a moment of stillness after a long journey.

Posting just for the beautiful memories . . .

noreply@blogger.com (Cindy Downes) — Tue, 16 Dec 2025 22:15:00 +0000

I love flowers. They brighten my day, lift my spirits, and give me that peaceful feeling of walking in nature. During my bereavement, I was gifted these beautiful bouquets. I'm posting them here simply to remember how they made my days a little brighter.

The Delay in Survivor Benefits—and Why It Matters

noreply@blogger.com (Cindy Downes) — Fri, 12 Dec 2025 11:42:00 +0000

I’m writing this to encourage future widows and widowers of modest means, like myself, to prepare ahead for the financial realities that follow the death of a spouse. Even if you and your partner currently have similar incomes, losing just one household check creates a sudden shift in lifestyle.

In our case, we had two Social Security checks; his was larger than mine. He also had two pensions. As his widow, I’ll receive his Social Security instead of my own (because mine was smaller) and a portion of his pensions. On paper, that may not sound too alarming. But here’s the part I didn’t fully understand until it happened: the transition is not immediate.

Within days of his death, all of his income stopped. Every penny. Gone.

The only money coming into my account was my small Social Security check. Yes, I will eventually receive his benefits and pensions, but “eventually” is the key word. As the surviving spouse, I am the one who has to file every form, make every phone call, and then wait while agencies “make a decision.” Phone call wait times range from a few minutes to a few hours. Appointment availability runs from weeks to months. And once everything is finally submitted, you may still wait 30–60 days for the new payments to begin. Back pay will come, but you still have to live in the meantime.

And the surprises didn't stop there. In the process of handling these transitions, I contacted our auto/home insurance company. Because the policy was in his name, I was required to apply for my own. My premium is now $100 more per month — even though nothing about my driving or living conditions changed! I even lost the safe-driver discount I earned because technically it was credited under his policy, not mine. Just like that, the $200 discount vanished.

Fortunately, my medical insurance was not affected, but that may not be true for everyone. It’s worth verifying before you’re forced to navigate a similar scenario.

Thankfully, over the past few years, I intentionally restructured our finances so we were not living on our full household income; and I built a savings cushion for “someday,” not knowing how soon that day would arrive. It required real trade-offs: moving to less expensive housing, giving up certain comforts, and living within a budget. The effort made all the difference. Without it, this transition would have been far more difficult.

I’m sharing this because many of us don't realize there can be a delay in receiving survivor benefits. For those living paycheck to paycheck, that gap can be especially difficult. And for anyone who has never tested life on one income, now is the time to see what that would look like. Build an emergency fund if you can. Practice living on one-income. Your future self will thank you.

And while you’re tending to financial things, please consider meeting with an elder-care attorney. Update your wills, medical and financial powers of attorney, beneficiary designations, and funeral plans. Having these documents in place made the difference between chaos and clarity for me. Without them, the early days after my husband’s death would have been far more difficult. (A friend of mine mentioned - make sure you have each other's passwords. And get at least 10 death certificates - she had to use one 17 years after her spouse's death!)

Do yourself a kindness: take care of these things now.

A Day of Progress (and Tomato Basil Soup)

noreply@blogger.com (Cindy Downes) — Thu, 11 Dec 2025 11:41:00 +0000

On Tuesday, I finally received the death certificates I needed to start tackling the next round of paperwork. At 4:30 p.m., I called Social Security to apply for spouse death benefits—only to discover the wait time was going to be two hours. Absolutely not. So, I decided to try again first thing Wednesday morning.

At 7:59 a.m., I called back and got right in! It took about 30 minutes to complete everything over the phone, and I felt relieved… until the representative told me I would still need to bring a death certificate to the office in person.

“Can’t I do it online somehow?” I asked.

Nope. Not possible. So she booked the earliest appointment available anywhere in the Houston area: January 17th. Almost five weeks away. UGH. She mentioned I could try going to the League City office without an appointment and hope for the best.

I hung up the phone, grabbed my keys, and drove straight there.

I arrived at 9:07 a.m. and—miracle of miracles—there were hardly any people waiting. I was in and out within ten minutes! What a relief to have that part done.

On the way home, I stopped to do some Christmas shopping for my grandpets at the local pet shop. Wow… dog food is expensive. I’m glad my new dog, Poochini, doesn’t eat much – LOL!

Once home, I uploaded my documents to the VA and began my applications for Surviving Spouse benefits and funeral reimbursement. That wrapped up yesterday’s paperwork—today’s stack awaits.

Next, I treated myself to lunch with a friend and played Canasta at OLLI, which was a much-needed break from the paperwork grind.

Later in the afternoon, a package arrived—a gift from dear friends who are also walking through Alzheimer’s in their own family. Their thoughtfulness really touched me. It was a Spoonful of Comfort box, filled with two large containers of Tomato Basil soup, six cookies, several dinner rolls, and even a ladle. What a beautiful idea. I want to remember this as it brought such comfort at just the right moment.

Of course, I ate a cookie first—it was delicious! The soup and rolls made the perfect dinner.

Today’s plan: more paperwork, Canasta at OLLI, and a bit of writing. Slowly but surely, I’m getting things done.

Shelly was the strong one today. . .

noreply@blogger.com (Cindy Downes) — Tue, 09 Dec 2025 23:18:00 +0000

Today we picked up Bill’s urn. I say we because I had to call Shelly to help me — I couldn’t get myself there on my own. The moment they brought the urn out, I lost it. I wasn’t functioning. Shelly stepped in automatically, talking to the funeral staff, taking the instructions for the flag, handling the paperwork for the Houston Veterans Memorial.

And me?
I just kept writing the check. That’s all I did. While she was being the adult in the room, I sat there crying and signing my name like it was the only thing I was capable of.

When it was time to leave, she carried the urn. I cried the entire way home.

Back at the apartment, she said she’d keep the urn, the flag, and the paperwork until Monday. I agreed without thinking. She stayed with me until I calmed down, and then she left — still carrying everything I should have been taking responsibility for.

And here’s the part I hate to admit. I’m relieved she has it all. Relieved to the point where I didn’t even stop to think about the weight I was putting on her until after she left.

But I’m also deeply grateful. She stepped in without a word, without making me feel worse, without asking for anything. She just did what needed to be done.

Today, I couldn’t be strong. Shelly was — and I’m thankful for her in a way I can hardly put into words.

Surprise! What I Didn't Expect After the Passing of My Husband

noreply@blogger.com (Cindy Downes) — Mon, 08 Dec 2025 13:32:00 +0000

I thought I had prepared for this. Bill had been declining for years, and I had slowly adjusted to the ongoing grief that comes with watching someone you love fade. I knew he was suffering, and part of me was ready for him to have peace. When he passed, I felt relief—briefly. Two days later, the real grief arrived.

I didn’t expect how sad I would be. Every time I see his photo or think about the life we had, I cry. I miss the old Bill. I miss having a “person”—someone who loved me, supported me, and enjoyed the simple routines of life with me. I miss hearing, “That was delicious,” when I fixed his favorite meal or “You look nice” when I dressed up for him. Those were constants in the early years. The last few years were different, but now that he’s gone, I can only seem to remember the good ones, and that brings its own sadness.

I also didn’t expect how quickly my income would drop. I knew it would happen, but the speed was shocking. Social Security immediately stopped his benefit. The VA disability pension was deposited and then immediately withdrawn. One of his pensions stayed only because it was the end of the month; a week later, that too was reduced. I will eventually receive his Social Security and, most likely, a smaller VA surviving spouse benefit, but nothing can even be applied for until the death certificates arrive. How long will that take? Who know? Fortunately, I had saved his VA money, so I’m prepared for the short-term gap. But I wonder how many widows and widowers know how fast these financial changes hit.

We aren’t having a service, and I’m not part of a church or work community. There is no gathering where people line up to hug you, no casserole deliveries, no flowers sent to a funeral home. What I didn’t expect was how comfort would show up anyway, just from different places. Quiet walks around town. Flowers from my daughter’s friend. A sympathy card from someone I hadn’t heard from in years. Laughing with friends at Dickens on the Strand. Simple meals with my kids.

And then there’s Poochini—the animated dog I brought home from the VA. He barks, wags his tail, and greets me whenever I walk into the apartment. Odd as it sounds, there is comfort in that kind of steady presence.

I’ve also been surprised at how quickly I’ve slipped into rebuilding mode. I’m making plans, seeing friends, organizing my finances, and exploring new business ideas. I expected to be immobilized by grief for months, but instead I’m already taking steps forward. I didn’t anticipate that.

What I’ve learned is that loss rarely looks the way you think it will. And that’s what I didn’t expect.

More Changes. . .

noreply@blogger.com (Cindy Downes) — Mon, 01 Dec 2025 11:33:00 +0000

While completing VA paperwork yesterday, I reached the line that asked for the dates of my marriage to Bill—start and end. Seeing those two words side by side hit me hard. It made me realize, in a very official way, that my marriage ended the day Bill died. I don’t think that reality had fully landed until I typed those numbers into the boxes.

That realization didn’t leave me unchanged. This morning, I changed my Facebook profile to “Widowed,” and I took off my wedding rings. Some of my readers may think I’m callous for doing this so soon; but the truth is, I’ve been a widow for many years. Those who understand dementia know that goodbye happens long before death.

Bill was the perfect husband for me. He gave me a very good life and two children who are the best part of it. We had good years together, as well as difficult ones. In fact, as of December 26, we would have been married for 55 years; and I will always be grateful for the time we had together.

I did everything I could to make Bill’s last years as comfortable as possible. He deserved that. But they were incredibly difficult years, and they took a toll on me. I’m approaching 76 now, and I want to reclaim some of the life that was put on hold while I cared for him. I know he would want that for me – just as I would want it for him if our roles had been reversed.

I tried wearing the rings on my right hand, but they don’t fit. Maybe, in time, I’ll have the engagement ring re-set into something new. For now, it’s tucked away safely, along with all the memories we shared. Bill will never be forgotten, but it’s time for me to move forward.

My new therapy pet . . .Poochini

noreply@blogger.com (Cindy Downes) — Mon, 01 Dec 2025 02:02:00 +0000

Someone at the VA donated a Joy for All Companion therapy pet dog to every veteran in memory care at the Richard A. Anderson Veterans Home. Bill had one, but he never really interacted with it. After he died, I brought it home simply because it was cute. What I didn’t expect was how much comfort and happiness it would bring me during this season of grief. No, it doesn’t replace Bill or my sweet dog Oreo, but it has been a surprising source of companionship.

This little dog yawns, pants, barks, and whines. Its eyes blink, its head moves, and when I walk in the door—or even just cross the room—it greets me with a cheerful bark. Sometimes it “falls asleep,” only to wake up and chatter at me again. I know it’s just a stuffed therapy animal, but it feels so real that I often forget. I even catch myself talking to it.

If you know someone living with dementia, someone newly widowed, or anyone who could use a bit of friendly company, I highly recommend one of these pets. They aren’t inexpensive, but if it’s within your means, they’re worth every penny.

As for mine, I’ve named him Poochini, inspired by Giacomo Puccini, the composer of the opera, Madame Butterfly. The name feels perfect - a musical nod and a butterfly's reminder of new life. Now, every time Poochini barks, I look ahead to the new life waiting for me.

Here's the link to the Joy for All Companion website. Also a link to a link to the Alzheimer's store where you can get a discount. Also my link to Amazon where I will receive an Amazon referral fee. (Thank you if you choose this!)

The Long Goodbye is Over

noreply@blogger.com (Cindy Downes) — Tue, 25 Nov 2025 09:40:00 +0000

My husband, Bill, passed from this life on Monday, November 24, 2025, at 4:10 p.m.

What began as an infected wound ultimately ended Bill’s long struggle with Alzheimer’s. When the VA called on November 21 to say he was running a fever, I drove up the next day to visit him. I could see that he wasn’t doing well. On Sunday, November 22, they told me he was “transitioning,” his body was beginning to shut down.

Wil drove down from Austin Sunday night. On Monday morning, the three of us ate breakfast together; then Wil and I drove to the VA while Shelly stayed to watch Freya.

Irene, the hospice nurse assessed the situation and said, “It could be an hour, possibly a day, but death was imminent.”

We spent the day saying our goodbyes as we watched his body struggle to hold on. The team kept him as comfortable as possible, giving him medication as needed. By 3:45 p.m., we knew it wouldn’t be much longer.

I had never seen someone die before. It was emotional and difficult to witness. Bill was in very good health other than Alzheimer’s, and he fought like hell as his organs began to shut down, one by one.

Around 3:50 p.m., his eyes rolled back and his vitals stopped. Irene looked at me with a shake of her indicating this could be the end. She began the countdown on her watch. After two minutes, I texted the kids and told them Bill had passed. (Wil had stepped out of the room for a moment.) However, no sooner had I done so when Bill jerked up and gasped another long, crackling breath. He was not giving up, yet.

I jumped up in shock. “What is happening?”

Irene explained that this was not unusual. “His heart is so strong, and it doesn’t want to give up.”

However, at 4:05, he ceased all signs of life again. Wil had returned and we were holding Bill’s hands, one on each side. Irene started the countdown. This time, Bill did not revive. he was gone at 4:10 p.m. His body was worn from the battle, but I could see that he was finally at peace.

Irene called the mortuary while the staff prepared Bill’s body for travel, finally draping him with an American flag.

The Veteran’s home played taps as our procession made its way out of the building and into the parking lot. After a few words from the staff, Bill was placed in the waiting vehicle for the ride back to Galveston.

This morning, I am both heartbroken and grateful. Heartbroken that my companion of 55 years, through good times and bad, is gone. But, grateful that the relentless cruelty of Alzheimer’s has finally ended. Bill is no longer suffering from pain, confusion, and fear. He is free at last.

And I am free at last - free to grieve, to cherish the years I had with him, and to move forward with my life. Will I see him again? I don’t know. I don’t have the answer to that question. All I know is that he is no longer suffering, and that is what matters to me.

Make it stop . . .

noreply@blogger.com (Cindy Downes) — Sat, 22 Nov 2025 23:48:00 +0000

I walk in and find Bill lying in bed, a thin white sheet covering his deformed frame which looks more like death than life. I reach out to comfort him, attempting to rub his outstretched arm, but quickly snap back in shock when I feel bones where tissue used to be. His muscles have atrophied, and now even his fatty tissue is wasting away. There isn’t much left of my husband.

The nurse tells me he has a bedsore that's become infected, so now—on top of the morphine for pain and the medications to keep him calm—they’ve added antibiotics, hoping to keep him from developing sepsis.

Bill opens his mouth as if to speak. Nothing comes out. But I notice his teeth, discolored from so many drugs. Bill always took good care of his teeth. He would be horrified to see them now.

Sadie, the hospice nurse, says they’re trying to find out why Bill is so combative when the aides try to bathe him. It has become so bad, they are now waking him at 4 am to give him his pain medications in hopes he’ll be more docile when the aides come at 6. They are not sure whether his combativeness is pain or something else. He can’t tell them.

“Hi, Bill,” I say. “How are you? Are you okay?” His eyes move, but I can tell he isn’t really seeing me. He looks like he’s trying to speak, but no sound comes out. I lean closer, hoping to catch a word, a phrase—anything—but still nothing.

I wonder what’s going on in his mind. He’s in a strange place. He can barely move. He can’t see; his eyes lost most of their vision years ago. That part isn’t new, but it must be more frightening now.

I feel completely helpless. What can I do? How can I make this better? How can I help him? But the horrible truth hits me again: I can’t. There is nothing I can do. I can only watch him die, one cell at a time.

I want it to stop. I want to shout at someone, anyone: Please make him better. Please stop this torture. How much more does this man have to endure? How much more do I have to endure?

But there is only silence.

I pick up my purse and leave my husband of 55 years in the hands of the hospice nurses. My soul can take no more . . . not today.

Morning Inspiration

noreply@blogger.com (Cindy Downes) — Mon, 27 Oct 2025 11:32:00 +0000

This inspiration came at just the right time. Today, I've been told by my Anchor Hospice social worker that I should preplan Bill's funeral (and mine!). UGH! Getting old is the pits! Of course, as my father-in-law used to say, "Consider the alternative!"

So, I went on the Malloy Funeral Home website hoping I could it all online. Nope, might have to go in. Not my favorite thing to do! I am not good with funerals or funeral homes. A new thing to stretch Cindy Downes. . .

I called the funeral home and got someone who didn't know what to do. So, I get to postpone it to tomorrow!

UPDATE: I met with Tiffany on Wednesday and made the funeral arrangements for both Bill and me. It wasn’t nearly as difficult as I expected. Tiffany immediately put me at ease and gave me all the information I needed—and then some. I actually walked out of the mortuary in a surprisingly good mood.

Bill will be interred at the Houston Veterans Memorial in Houston, Texas, with a full veteran’s ceremony, including taps and a flag presentation. It’s exactly what he would have wanted.

Since Shelly is the “keeper of the ashes” in our family, I gave her a choice about what to do with mine. I could go with Bill to the Veterans Memorial, or I could be turned into “memorial stones.” She loved that idea, and so do I. She’ll be able to place them in her garden. I only wish I could have had stones from my mom—they’re truly beautiful.

One more task checked off the list.

The Next Stage - Hospice Care

noreply@blogger.com (Cindy Downes) — Thu, 23 Oct 2025 23:55:00 +0000

Today, I made the decision to place Bill under hospice care. He has declined much faster during these last six months; and now, he is in the last stages of dementia. My goal is to ensure that he remains as comfortable and free from pain as possible during this last transition. The VA uses Anchor Hospice. They were gracious, informative, and took the time to answer all my questions. So far, I am very happy with them.

This has been one of the hardest decisions of my life, even though I know it’s the right one. I was happy to learn that Medicare pays for hospice. What a blessing that is! 

 I appreciate your good thoughts and understanding as I navigate this next chapter.

Caregiving - PBS Documentary

noreply@blogger.com (Cindy Downes) — Sat, 11 Oct 2025 13:08:00 +0000

Everyone in the United States should watch this video from PBS. As it says, there are four kinds of people in the world:

Those who have been caregivers.
Those who currently are caregivers.
Those who will be caregivers
And those who need caregiving.

This film documents the history of caregiving in the United States and reveals the state and the stakes of care in America today. Please share.

https://www.pbs.org/video/caregiving/

Gratitude Journaling

noreply@blogger.com (Cindy Downes) — Sat, 06 Sep 2025 10:28:00 +0000

I got up this morning with the realization that, in spite of my difficulties, I am a very blessed person. So, I decided it was time to write another gratitude blog. Here goes:

I get to live in a beautiful apartment that's perfect for me. First, there's a kitchen filled with everything I need for my experiments in the culinary arts. I have appliances for every application and spices of every kind. I can grind my own wheat, bake my own bread, make a simple, grilled cheese sandwich, or prepare an international feast from scratch - Indian, French, or my current favorite, Mediterranean.

I have a craft room where I can practice my art - whether it's making birthday cards, sublimating mugs, or creating 3-D pictures of turtles and flowers. I can work alone or with my very special "crafty chicks," a gathering I look forward to every month.

A Roland piano sits my main living area where I see it every day, a reminder that music is always within reach to soothe my soul. I sit down two or three times a day, learning to play just a bit better than the day before.

My bedroom is a work in progress, decorated in purple and rose – colors that make me feel peaceful and provide a safe space to rest. Butterflies float on the walls, around pictures of outdoor scenery and signs that read: "Accept what is," "Let go of what was," Have faith in what will be," and "Believe in yourself." These remind me of my Stoic philosophy to live each day as it comes.

I have storage, too - enough for both my "treasures" and my hurricane supplies! In fact, my closet is so spacious I'm about to set up my sewing machine and serger inside to make sewing more convenient. I put these tools away several years ago because I have no one to sew for, but maybe I can use them now to sew children's clothes for someone else as way to give back.

Finally, I have a pool – four feet of cool, clear, blue water where I can swim my 20 minutes of laps each day to stay fit and "trim." Well, trimmer! LOL!

In addition to having this perfect-for-me place to live, I have wonderful people in my life. I have two, very special children who take good care of their "mama" making sure I don't go off the deep end! They help me with hard decisions and remind me to take care of myself as well as Bill.

I have friends and relatives who make life exciting with fun "adventures." We share meals at fine dining spots, quirky Hobbit-like cafes, and local diners. We visit museums, attend plays, and go to the symphony. We play Canasta, Cribbage, and Swoop, challenging each other to keep our memories sharp. We explore unique places, near and far – sometimes even lying on the floor, mesmerized by dazzling lights. And best of all, they put up with my idiosyncrasies and listen when I need to process the emotional roller coaster of Bill being in memory care.

What else could a person want? I am truly blessed.

An Emotional Day

noreply@blogger.com (Cindy Downes) — Thu, 04 Sep 2025 20:25:00 +0000

What a day. So many emotions – happiness, sadness, anger, gratefulness - all crammed into one day.

The happiness was seeing my son, Wil, and his new dog, Freya, a white husky. Spending the last few days with them was a welcome distraction from losing Oreo.

Today brought the sadness. Wil, headed back to Austin, stopping at the VA so we could visit Bill together. I brought Bill outside to meet Freya. On the way, Bill said, I'm going to see "Oreo." I didn’t correct him-it would have been too upsetting. He was already agitated.

Outside, he recognized Wil right away but was frightened by Freya. Our visit was short; Bill wanted to go back to the safety of his pod. Inside, he grew more anxious, repeating, "help me, help me," over and over, with an occasional "I love you" thrown in as well. In his hallway, he kept saying, "help me hallway, we're back in my hallway, my hallway, help me." It's so hard to hear the confusion in his mind.

Back in his pod, one of the other residents began shouting at Bill to stop it, even threatening him. At that point, I took Bill and went to find his aide before a fight broke out. I finally spotted her by the nurses' station limping and holding her hip as if she was in pain. She was in the process of taking a medication of some sort. Now, I was angry. "How can she take care of these patients when she's in pain? How can she help get Bill in and out of the Hoya lift or move him around on the bed to change him? Why isn't she at home healing while a capable aide takes her place?" I understand that she may not have sick time, but that doesn't help my husband.

We finally got Bill settled, and I went to find the head nurse. I discussed the issue and she assured me the problem would be addressed. I left as there was nothing else I could do.

Generally, I find the care at the VA very good. This was a definite outlier and it makes it hard to leave Bill knowing things like this happen. But what can I do?

My gratefulness is for a Trader Joe staff member. I stop there occasionally when I'm in Houston because I love Trader Joes! As the staff member packed my freezer bag for me, we chatted about Galveston and Bill. When she finished checking me out, she asked, "What is your favorite color?" I told her purple. She insisted I wait at the register and left. Shortly, she returned with two beautiful bouquets of purple-pink flowers all neatly packed in a bucket with water and wrapped in two paper bags. It was a lovely gesture!

I'm so grateful for the kind people in my life. It makes all the other emotions less painful.

Oreo, My Companion is Gone

noreply@blogger.com (Cindy Downes) — Thu, 28 Aug 2025 12:19:00 +0000

My heart is broken. My sweet companion, Oreo, the one who stood by me through this struggle with Bill—is gone.

I came home from the airport and found her unresponsive, dehydrated, and with severe weight loss. She hadn’t been eating well before I left, but I blamed it on the food issue. She had always been fragile since she was a pup, needing special diets to stay well. Then, in the summer of 2024, we discovered a vegetarian food that she gave her new life. It was like a miracle—suddenly she was healthy, perky, and ready to walk with me again. We were enjoying life together, and I was elated.

But this summer, the company stopped making that food. “Not enough demand,” they said. I tried every other vegetarian brand I could find. I even experimented with making her food myself, desperate to find something she could eat without getting sick. Nothing really worked that she would eat. By the time I left for vacation, she was already picking at her food. I had stocked up on dry food from the original brand and saved three cans of the wet, thinking, When I get back, I’ll figure this out. She’s just being finicky.

But she wasn’t. She was dying. Her kidneys and pancreas were failing, and I didn’t know. I left her when she needed me most. How could I have left her?

The moment I stepped into my apartment, I knew something was wrong. I rushed her to the vet, but it was too late. I had to let her go. Shelly came to help me through it. I stayed with Oreo until she drifted to sleep, and then Shelly stayed for the rest. I just couldn’t.

This morning, I gathered her things. Some went into the closet. Some I’ll take to the humane society. I couldn’t give it all away—not yet. Part of me still hopes I’ll hear her paws on the floor, coming back from using the doggie pee pad in the bathroom.

I knew this day would come, but I didn’t think it would come so soon. Oreo was my comfort in this lonely apartment. When I came home crying about Bill, she would curl up next to me, letting me pet her until the tears stopped. She was my cozy companion, always there and never complaining.

Seeing Oreo so thin and unresponsive brought back the conversation the nurses had with me a couple of months ago about the end stage of Alzheimer's. Apparently, if nothing else takes him first (heart etc.), Bill will eventually starve himself to death. Hospice will keep him "comfortable" with morphine and other medications, but what a terrible way to go. How will I survive that? How can I sit by week after week, watching him waste away and be powerless to stop it? The truth is, I have no choice.

For now, I have to put those thoughts aside. I can't do anything about that.

Instead, I'll run some errands - drop off Oreo's food and medicine at the humane society, then drive up to Houston to visit Bill, if I can pull myself together. Hopefully, he's having a good day. On the way back, I'll pick up groceries.

Then I’ll return home to the silence. It's a sad, sad day. . .

Walking with Oreo

noreply@blogger.com (Cindy Downes) — Sun, 27 Jul 2025 10:46:00 +0000

Walking With Oreo

There’s a program in town called Walk with a Doc. It’s designed to encourage people to get outside, stay active, and have a doctor on hand just in case. Me? I don’t need Walk with a Doc—I've got Walk with Oreo.

Broken Arrow, OK (2011)

Oreo entered my life as a furry three-month-old, black and white puppy – part Shih Tzu, part Jack Russell. I'd gone to the local humane society to get a cat. But, before I had a chance to tell the volunteer what I was looking for, a woman came in with a basket of puppies. I looked in and saw Oreo scrambling all over the other pups. I knew this was the pet for me. She was all energy, and her name was Oreo. (I do love chocolate!) Oreo bounced instead of walked, ran instead of strolled, and kept me on my toes from day one.

Oreo-June 2011

Our first home together had a nice backyard, but no fence. However, we lived in a neighborhood with plenty of sidewalks, so daily walks were easy. We both needed exercise, so that's what we did. No need to fence the yard.

At first, her little legs couldn't keep up, but before long we were walking a mile a day.

Even when we weren't walking, we were usually together. If I went somewhere Oreo couldn't walk, I put her in a pet sling and carried her around my neck. She learned to travel in the car and stay in a motel. I bought her a doggie highchair so she could see out the car window and her own doggie suitcase for food and toys. We would drive to parks all over Oklahoma and nearby states, just to walk.

House training was a breeze, and she never chewed the furniture. I did have to use a playpen to protect her from our cats. They were curious about the tiny, black and white fuzzball. Oreo's active personality made the cats want to "bat" at her as if she was a toy!

"What kind of cat is that?"

During the first year, she developed bladder stones, requiring surgery. The vet removed a baby-food–sized jar of stones; and from then on, she was on a prescription diet. But that didn't slow her down. We continued to walk about a mile a day, her tiny legs trotting beside me, ears flopping in the wind.

Oreo Post-op

Independent Living – A Cottage with a Fenced Yard (2015, Oreo is 4)

Moving into an independent living community was a new chapter for us. Our little cottage had a fenced back yard where I could easily put her out to potty. It was tempting to stop walking; but I would never let her outside alone. I'd heard a horror story about a hawk snatching a small dog right off the ground, and I wasn’t taking any chances with Oreo. Forget the back yard – we walked the neighborhood.

Our new community also had a dog park, but Oreo wasn't a social butterfly. Sharing wasn't her thing, and she also had a talent for sniffing out disgusting things to eat, which then made her sick. So, the dog park was off limits. We stuck to our walks, one to two miles a day.

Atria - The Woodland Walks (2018, Oreo is 7)

By the time we moved to Atria, Oreo and I had a rhythm. Our new apartment had a beautiful, wooded path winding around the complex – a peaceful retreat from the busyness of caregiving. If we wanted a longer walk, there was a walking trail nearby that went for miles through south Tulsa.

Oreo loved the wooded pathway the most because she would almost always encounter a squirrel. As soon as she spotted one, she'd yank the leash, speed off after it, and chase it up the nearest oak tree. Then she'd jump and bark as if to say, "I got it! I got it!" I don't know what she would have done if she actually caught it!

"I got it! I got it!"

Island Bay – The Canal Years (2021, Oreo is 10)

This move came with a change of scenery: a canal out front, a boardwalk out back, and a new set of challenges. The boardwalk was old, worn, and uneven, making our walks feel more like an obstacle course.

The canal was about twelve feet below the apartments, so there was a grassy bank that flowed down from the sidewalk to the canal. One day, Bill was walking Oreo when a squirrel ran by. Oreo jerked the leash, hard, and Bill lost his balance. Before he knew it, Bill was rolling down the hill, arms flailing. A neighbor came running and rescued him. That was the last time he walked Oreo.

Still, Oreo and I kept going, logging our daily miles, navigating the boardwalk, dodging loose boards, and always keeping an eye out for squirrels. Some days, we'd pause to watch the pelicans swoop down for a light snack or the silver mullet leap from the water.

Pelican watching!

Lakeside at Campeche Cove - Slowing Down (2023, Oreo is 12)

Our next apartment had lovely green spaces tucked between the buildings. I thought of them as my very own English Garden. Oreo, on the other hand, saw them as battlegrounds – filled with other dogs walking the same paths, sniffing the same spots, and invading her territory! Over time, we figured out which dogs we could tolerate and which ones we couldn't. Still, we logged one to two miles a day.

"I don't know. They smell weird!"

But something else was happening. My once-springy, eager pup began slowing down. Our walks shrank to half a mile - some days, she could barely walk at all.

Then things got worse.

She stopped eating. Slept all day. Diarrhea. Vomiting. Repeat. I even canceled a cruise because I couldn't bear to leave her. Nothing the vet tried seemed to help. She continued to get worse.

Finally, in the spring of 2024, I took her in one more time and gave the vet an ultimatum: Do something, I told him, or I'll have to let her go.

His answer? A vegetarian diet. I was skeptical but desperate enough to try anything.

Cove at GYB – The Comeback (2024, Oreo is 13)

Just before our move to The Cove at GYB, something incredible happened. The vegetarian diet worked! So much so, I've been cutting back on my meat as well!

Within five days, Oreo bounced back. Her tail wagged again. She had energy. She wanted to walk. She even wanted to run! Suddenly, my frail, aging companion was acting like an eight-year-old—bounding around, eyes bright, and eager to go!

We began walking again - up to two miles a day! And not just that - she was climbing stairs. Three flights of them!

Walking with Oreo (2025, Oreo is 14)

Oreo has been my walking partner for 14 years now. We both have some gray hairs, but we're still out there– walking, exploring, living. Acting younger than we really are.

Because the best way to stay young . . . is to keep walking.

AI: Rediscovering a Part of Myself

noreply@blogger.com (Cindy Downes) — Wed, 23 Jul 2025 22:31:00 +0000

I just finished creating a presentation called AI for Fun and Everyday Life, which I’ll be sharing at OLLI next week. I truly enjoyed putting it together—something I wouldn’t have expected a couple of years ago.

Back then, artificial intelligence wasn’t even on my radar. But after I placed Bill in the VA Memory Care unit, I suddenly had time on my hands and wasn’t sure how to fill it.

At first, I jumped into volunteering. I helped out at OLLI and enjoyed it but stepped away after my supervisor left. Then I edited the newsletter for the UU church here in Galveston, which was also rewarding. Still, I began to realize something important: at this stage in my life—balancing regular visits to see Bill and making time to enjoy my own life—I no longer want a steady, structured volunteer role. Wasn't there something I could do on my own time schedule?

Meanwhile, my kids kept talking about AI. My daughter Shelly, a college instructor, was frustrated that her students were using it to write their papers—poorly. My son Wil, on the other hand, was excited about all the ways AI could make life easier.

Over time, both of them found ways to incorporate AI into their work. Shelly started integrating AI into her teaching, using it for lesson plans, and training her students to use it thoughtfully. She also uses AI and her cat, Sammy, to make her presentations more interesting.

Wil learned to program with AI and now builds tools for both business and personal use, including TheWelpDesk, an AI that I use to edit images.

Naturally, I got curious too.

I first used AI at OLLI, writing course descriptions for the catalog. Then, as editor of the UU newsletter, I began using it to generate graphics and polish my writing. Bit by bit, I got more comfortable with it—and more intrigued.

This summer, I decided to teach a class on the topic. My presentation, AI for Fun and Everyday Life, is designed to show how AI can be a helpful tool—whether you're writing, planning a trip, creating art, troubleshooting around the house, or just having fun.

Putting this class together taught me a lot. I now have a better sense of what AI can (and can’t) do. But, more importantly, I realized what I'd been missing in my life. I've always loved teaching adults and sharing what I've learned, but I had set it aside when I became a caregiver. Preparing this presentation reminded me how much joy and sense of purpose that role brings me.

I may have started exploring AI out of curiosity, but it’s ended up enriching my life in more ways than one—by helping me stay curious, feel useful, and even rediscover a part of myself.

Grandpa Cratchet - On the Road in Our Motorhome

noreply@blogger.com (Cindy Downes) — Mon, 14 Jul 2025 13:00:00 +0000

I'll never forget that day in 1989 when Bill came home from school and said, "We're going to Kokomo, Indiana."

My eyebrows scrunched up, "What do you mean? Are you quitting school?"

We were currently living in Virginia Beach, Virginia, where Bill had just completed his first year of a master's degree program in photojournalism after a medical retirement from the Delaware State Police as a helicopter pilot.

"No, of course not. We're simply going a different direction for the summer."

A different direction was an understatement! I soon learned that Bill had taken a summer job as an assistant to Sam Bowman who owned Grandpa Crachet's traveling entertainment show. Sam had several teams that traveled the U.S. doing puppet shows at fairs, malls, rodeos, and churches. Bill would be building stages & sets, learning to operate the puppets, traveling to different venues, setting up the stage, and putting on the shows.

"We're going to be roadies!" My kids exclaimed. The thought running through my mind was, "What has Bill gotten us into?"

As soon as his classes ended for the semester, we packed up our 33' motorhome, left Virginia Beach, and headed to Indiana.

The first few weeks in Kokomo consisted of the same routine for me and the kids. We continued to homeschool while Bill worked with Sam on the sets. But that would soon change.

Gradually, I learned that the kids and I were "considered part of the team" as well. Before long, Wil was working on sound equipment, Shelly was designing costumes, and I was writing puppet skits. And, of course, all of us became puppeteers as well.

Our show consisted of a schoolhouse built on a 16' trailer that we would tow behind our motorhome. The schoolhouse was also the travel container for Grandpa Cratchet's farm truck which was built on a golf cart chassis.

The driver (Bill) would manipulate Grandpa using his left hand and drive the truck with his right hand. A cloth scrim hung between the puppet and Bill so that he could see ahead to drive, but the audience could not see Bill working the puppet. It actually looked like Grandpa Cratchet was driving the truck!

Bill riding around as Grandpa Cratchet.

Soon, the stage was built, the trailer was loaded with Grandpa's truck tucked inside, we had rehearsed our parts, and it was time to go. Bill drove the motorhome and trailer; I followed behind in our Dodge Caravan.

Bill putting the final touches on the Old Schoolhouse.

Our first stop was a fair held at the Yonkers Racetrack in Yonkers, New York. Other than waking up to find my pet cat dead in the stairwell of the motorhome, the show went off without a hitch. There was not a blade of grass or mound of dirt to be found in Yonkers, so our precious cat now resides under the pounding feet of racehorses.

Our next stop was the Buffalo Mall, in Buffalo, New York. All was going as planned until Bill, while attempting to position the school bell on the roof of the schoolhouse, lost his balance and fell. A visit to the ER confirmed he had broken his left leg. Because of the cast and the small amount of space for the driver, he was now unable to drive the motorhome or Grandpa's truck. So, guess who got those jobs? You guessed it - me!

Here's where things took another surprising turn. On my first day of driving Grandpa, I began the ride down the middle of the mall chatting with the kids. Wil and Shelly were walking next to truck trying to keep the young mall-goers from poking their hands into the truck to grab Grandpa. All of a sudden, the truck sped up and took off down the mall. When I tried to brake, I discovered the gas pedal had fallen to the floor!

Leaving everyone else behind, the truck and I sped down the center of the mall with shoppers running this way and that to get away from us. A mall cop came screaming up, yelling, "Stop that truck! Stop that truck! You can't drive that fast in the mall!"

Like I didn't know that!

By now, I'm totally panicked. I yank my hand out of Grandpa's head and begin to feel around all over the floor, desperately trying to locate the gas pedal, while trying to keep my head up so I could see where I was driving. Finally, I found the pedal and pulled it up. The truck came to a stop.

Luckily, I didn't get arrested, and we finished the event without further excitement. But, before we could head to our next destination, Sam sent us to a welding shop for some repair work on the truck.

"You'll have to back the motorhome and trailer into the garage," the shop owner ordered when I arrived.

"Back it up? In there?" I said, pointing to the microscopic opening that was the door of the garage. "This is my first day driving this thing. I can't back into that garage with the trailer on! Can't you do it?"

"Sorry, liability issues."

So, I grabbed the steering wheel, looked through the mirrors at everyone trying to tell me which way to the turn the wheel, and, in one try, I backed it in!

We continued our tour in the northeast and then traveled the Midwest, through Chicago and Detroit, without any mishaps, other than a hubcap flung off a car going 80 mph and hit our front grill. Thankfully no one was hurt other than our grill.

After Detroit, we were traveling down 13-Mile Road towards our next destination in Wisconsin. It was not a major highway and nor in the best of shape. Bill, driving behind me in the Caravan, suddenly shouted in our 2-way radio, "Stop! Stop! You've lost the trailer!"

I stopped the motorhome, pulled it to the side of the road, and got out. Sure enough, the trailer was in the ditch! And it was in bad shape.

After a call to Sam, another employee came our way to trade out the equipment so we could continue the tour. In the meantime, we had to spend the night behind the repair shop which was in front of a railroad track. It was a not a good night's sleep!

Eventually, we finished the summer tour, Bill's leg healed, and he drove us back to Virginia. Bill returned to school, and I breathed a sigh of relief. That escapade was over. Now, I can go back to being a homeschool mom.

But that's not the end of the story!

The next summer, Bill made the decision to "go on the road" for Sam again. This time we lost the trailer on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. The repair shop informed us that the reason this kept happening was that the trailer was too heavy for our motorhome and hitch.

This didn't end our adventures, but it changed the show. Our stage went back to Indiana; and now, we had just Grandpa Cratchet and his farm truck. And Bill ran the whole thing by himself! Yeah!

Grandpa Cratchet (aka. Bill) getting stopped by police (publicity photo)

Finally, the kids and I had time to explore the towns and cities where we stopped. We even took a very short, day trip into Canada.

The rest of the summer was peaceful and uneventful, meaning no more broken legs or trailer accidents.

The following summer, Bill came home one day and said, "Sam wants us to do the summer tour again."

"No," I said. "You'll have to go without me."

And that was the end of our Grandpa Cratchet adventures.

I do wish I could remember more about those two summers, but time has erased most of the details. I do remember we had fun when things weren't hectic. We met interesting people. We learned about our country. And the kids acquired some essential work skills.

Would I do it again? Hmmmm. . .

You can watch Grandpa Crachet here on YouTube. He's still going strong, but a more modern version than we had in the 1980s.

Homeschooling Part 1 and Homeschooling Part 2 begin this series of Memoirs

Downsizing relates the many moves I made during my adult years, including our homeschooling years.

Homeschooling - Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Cindy Downes) — Mon, 07 Jul 2025 13:56:00 +0000

Homeschooling Part 1 covers the "why" I homeschooled.

At the beginning of our homeschool journey, I tried to run things identical to a traditional classroom. That's all I knew.

Every morning started with the flag salute, prayer, and Bible reading. Then we dove into the “three R’s”—reading, writing, and arithmetic.

Shelly was easy. I handed her a workbook, gave her some short instructions, and she was off and running. Independent and focused.

Wil was a different story. We started with phonics.

“Bat,” I said, pointing to the colorful pictures in the workbook. “Buh, as in ball. Ah, as in apple. Tuh, as in turtle. Now put it together—B-a-t. Bat.”

Over and over, I had him repeat the sounds and try to form the word. But it wasn’t clicking. His eyes clouded with frustration. Mine too.

On to writing. . . but writing brought its own battles. Wil struggled to form the letters. His hand cramped from gripping the pencil. His letters were sometimes written backwards. After a few shaky attempts and many tears, we gave up and moved on to math.

That was the hardest yet. Even the first page of the workbook left him overwhelmed. By late morning, both of us were exhausted. I had tried everything I knew, but nothing worked.

“We’ll try again tomorrow,” I said, forcing a smile. “Right now, let’s do something fun.”

Fun, for me, meant nature walks and fresh air. But going outside during school hours felt risky. We lived in a quiet development—large, one-acre lots, but with good visibility. I worried someone would notice the kids the kids in the yard playing, instead of in school, and report us. So, we stayed inside until 3:00 p.m.

We had plenty to do indoors. We read together, created art, did science experiments, and played music. During "after hours" and on weekends, we could venture outside, join neighborhood friends for playtimes, and participate in church activities.

Thus began our first week of school.

It didn’t take long to realize I was repeating the same mistakes school had made with Wil. He was still struggling—and I wasn’t helping.

“If you keep doing the same things, you’ll keep getting the same results,” a friend once told me. She was right. I needed to try something new.

So, I began researching alternative teaching methods - Montessori. Classical education. Charlotte Mason. Unit studies. Even something called “unschooling.” I had no idea there were so many ways to educate a child!

However, the biggest breakthrough came when I read about learning styles.

I discovered that Shelly and I are visual learners—we learn by seeing. Wil, on the other hand, is an auditory and kinesthetic learner. He needs to hear things, and physically interact with them, to truly understand.

Now, I had a new plan. I created a more flexible routine – one that blended different curriculum styles and emphasized hands-on, multi-sensory learning. We didn't simply read our lessons; we listened, touched, and explored.

I found cassette tapes that taught phonics through song. We sang, “Ah-ah-apple, buh-buh-ball, cuh-cuh-cat, and duh, duh, dog.” The catchy tune made the consonant sounds memorable.

Reading became a shared experience, with each of us taking turns as able. We’d read aloud from biographies, poetry, and the classics, as well as books about science, history and math. I would read first, then Shelly would take a turn; and, when we came to words Wil could sound out, he’d give it a try. Our old 1828 Webster’s Dictionary became a fixture on the table as we learned new vocabulary together.

Through our reading times, we learned how math developed, what made up the ocean, and how people lived in ancient times. We read about different countries and spun the globe to find them, then created our own paper and plaster maps. Eventually, we could name every U.S. state, the capitols, and many of the world’s nations.

Reading time shifted—from struggle to adventure.

Writing remained a problem for Wil. He did learn to print, albeit slowly and carefully. Teaching him cursive helped his speed a little. Then one day, he found a book on Spencerian penmanship at the library and became obsessed with mastering its elegant swirls and decorative flourishes. Oddly, that motivated him.

Still, handwriting took time—and time was precious.

Around age eight or nine, I taught both kids keyboarding. Free from the tedious physical effort of handwriting, Wil’s creativity and curiosity flourished.

We next tackled grammar, spelling, punctuation, and composition - every day, both fiction and nonfiction, serious and silly.

In the car, we told “chain stories”—one person started a tale, the next added a twist, and so on. The kids became masters of surprise endings.

Arithmetic became something Wil could hold in his hands, whether it was marbles, candy, or buttons. By having something tangible to stand in for numbers, he could sort them, count them, move them around, and understand why math worked. He wasn't just learning math-he was doing math.

Once we finished the basics for the day, we moved into the "electives." We learned to draw, blend with colored pencils, and paint with watercolor and acrylics. We studied the master's and tried to imitate their techniques.

Music time meant dancing on the hardwood floor of our rec room. We spun in circles to the tempo of a waltz, sang the latest pop songs, and pounded out the beat on homemade, oatmeal-container drums with nothing more than wooden spoons.

In the kitchen, we became mad scientists—building baking soda volcanoes; resurrecting old, discarded radios and TVs; and demonstrating Newton’s laws with wooden planks and marbles.

We hiked our neighborhood woods, gathered leaves, and pressed them in wax paper. The kids filled notebooks with sketches and snapshots of the plants and creatures we’d seen. Our adventures took us to parks, museums, and historical sites. Back home, we cooked up family favorites, sewed, and planted a simple garden.

This became our daily curriculum.

When Wil turned nine, something clicked. The child who had once lagged behind suddenly surged ahead in math and science. His reading was now on level—though he remained a slow, deliberate reader who preferred listening. His handwriting was passable, but with a keyboard or tape recorder, his composition skills were above level.

It had taken me four years to bring Wil up to grade level - four years of tears, laughter, and small, hard-won victories. My original goal was to help him learn to read, write, and do math, but somewhere along the way, all three of us had found a way of life we hadn’t expected.

Shelly was marching along with very little intervention from me and was at least two grade levels ahead in her studies. Her one problem was math, not her favorite subject, and it remains so today. Shelly now tells me there is a dyslexia for math, called dyscalculia and that she has it. Whoops, I missed that one. Sorry, Shelly!

At this point in time, I knew I could send them both back to traditional school and they would do fine, but our journey wasn’t over. A new adventure was calling us—We were moving to Virginia Beach.

To read about our many moves, see my post on "Downsizing."

Coming soon: our homeschooling adventures in a motor home - Grandpa Cratchet.

Homeschooling - Part 1

noreply@blogger.com (Cindy Downes) — Mon, 30 Jun 2025 13:54:00 +0000

Homeschooling – A Memoir (written on June 5, 2025)

Why I Wrote This Now:

It took me a many years to write about my homeschool journey; because, for much of my adult life, I believed I had failed my children by choosing to homeschool them. Friends and family thought I was insane for homeschooling. I didn't have a teaching degree; in fact, I didn't have a college degree at all. How could I possibly think that I could educate my own children? Surely, I would ruin their chance for success, and they'd become social misfits. I might even get arrested in the process and have them taken away.

As the years passed, every challenge Wil and Shelly went through seemed to be proof that I'd made a terrible mistake. Whether their struggles were with relationships, money, or careers, I was sure it was my fault.

But, as I grew older, I started to notice something. Every parent I knew, whether their kids went to public school, private school, or were homeschooled, watched their children struggle at times. That's just life.

And recently, I've begun to think about all the good that came from homeschooling. I remember the fun times we had exploring the US in a 33-foot motor home, meeting people from all walks of life, and the unique learning opportunities we had.

I think about how we, as a family, have learned resilience from life's struggles. How we've supported one another through the good times and bad. And how, as older adults, we've reconnected by giving each other the freedom to simply be.

And finally, I'm very proud of my children's accomplishments in spite of the education I gave them. My son has his own business as a computer programmer and my daughter just finished her 2nd master's degree. Best of all, they are GOOD people!

So yes, I'm now ready to tell my story. It's time to look back at what it meant to be a homeschool mom, before it was trendy, before it was even legal in most states. It's time to write down the good, the bad, the messy, and the beautiful. Here goes . . .

The Decision (Middletown, DE, 1980-85; Wil 4-9; Shelly 3-8)

“Are you crazy?” my friend Diane asked when I told her I was pulling my son, Wil, out of school in order to homeschool him. “That's illegal!”

She was right. It was 1981, and homeschooling was illegal in Delaware. But I was preparing to do it anyway—because, to me, I had no choice. I wasn't going to let history repeat itself.

Back in the 1950s, my older brother Randy had struggled in school from first grade until the day he graduated, twelve years later. He was passed from one grade to the next without support, relentlessly teased by classmates, and constantly belittled from our father. His self-esteem never recovered. Unable to pursue further education, he drifted from one low-paying job to another, and by thirty, he had followed our father into alcoholism. He died at forty-three.

I wasn’t going to let that happen to Wil.

Wil had just finished five-year-old preschool. He cried every day, failed to grasp the basics of reading, writing, and arithmetic, and was already being bullied. None of the professionals I spoke with could give me answers, let alone support. It wouldn't be until adulthood that Wil would be diagnosed with dyslexia and ADHD. But in the early 80s, no one had a clue.

When Wil’s teacher informed me that she was going to fail him and have him repeat kindergarten, I said, “No.” Failure wasn’t an option.

I began exploring alternative schools, but none felt right. Around the same time, I happened to catch a segment on television about homeschooling. When I mentioned it to my in-laws, they were surprisingly encouraging. They told me about military families they knew who had homeschooled successfully. I admired my in-laws as they were both successful college graduates (Univ of Hawaii and US Naval Academy), so that was all the nudge I needed.

By summer’s end, I had made up my mind: I would homeschool.

Getting Started (1981)

In 1981, finding curriculum was a real challenge. Unless you were a professional educator, curriculum was impossible to get. After some digging, I discovered Seventh-day Adventist curriculum. The Dick and Jane-style readers featured a family who went to church on Saturday and ate plant-based burgers, long before they were popular. I wasn’t Adventist, but I knew I could make it work.

I ordered the entire first-grade curriculum for Wil—minus the answer keys, which weren't sold to the public. I was confident I could figure out the answers. I mean, how hard can first grade be?

Since I was keeping Wil at home, I decided to homeschool Shelly too. She was kindergarten age, already reading above grade level, so I ordered her the K5 curriculum. I was sure she could tackle this curriculum with no problems at all.

Next, I transformed the dining room of our two-story brick home into a classroom. I hung a blackboard on one wall and a bulletin board on the other. I decorated the bulletin board with multi-colored alphabets and numbers for easy reference. I stocked a bookshelf with our new curriculum and a variety of fiction and nonfiction books, from early readers to adult classics.

At a local resale shop, I found two small wooden desks for the kids and a storage cabinet that I filled with writing paper, pencils, and art supplies. Determined to provide a well-rounded education, I also purchased some musical instruments and basic science lab equipment.

On my desk, I placed a globe, an American flag, and our brand-new Apple IIe computer with its bright green screen and blinking cursor, just waiting for input.

The only photo I could find quickly! Kit Kat is homeschooling, too!

With the help of this new computer, I created a daily and weekly schedule that included the flag salute, prayer, the core subjects of reading, writing, arithmetic, science, and history, as well as lunch, gym, art, music, and recess.

My goal for the year was to get Wil on grade level in his core subjects. After that, I planned to put them both back into school.

It was time to begin!

Next time: The challenges begin and how I navigated the tricky legal terrain of homeschooling in the early 80s. Homeschooling Part 2.