I received a brochure in the mail today entitled We’re on the Move to End Alzheimer’s.
I hope they are.
As we all know some great men and women have been afflicted with this horrible disease --- notably President Ronald Reagan and my Mother, who had early stages of dementia.
The Healing Sand
Prologue
When I first moved to Oak Ridge, Tenn. in 1990 I lived alone in the East Tennessee Apartments. My neighbor was an old distinguished gentleman named Mr. McBee. We used to sit and smoke our pipes together and he would regale me with stories of growing up in Graves County in Western Kentucky. His wife had Alzheimer's disease -- or as he would say "Old Timer's Disease." This story is dedicated to my friend and fellow pipe smoker.
Sy wasn't sure, maybe it was the air that made him feel so alive. Spring air was always invigorating and refreshing. It was fresh, clean air that hinted of adventures yet to come in a world about to be renewed. It was the kind of air that when you breathed it, it rejuvenated your soul. He was sure that it felt crisp and nippy on his masked face. The sun was warm and temperate. It helped offset the sting that occasionally he felt when the wind bit, just a little too much, as it whistled through the trees.
The creek bank was steep and sheer in places. It looked to be about five feet, or so to the top of it. It was a dry creek except when the rains came. Snags of old branches stuck up from its bottom like sentries. They were scraggly and bedraggled looking guards, Sy thought. He weaved through the tangled and knotted brush carefully. Nothing could be better, he thought, than playing chase with Pop’s old coon dog Blue, and getting far enough ahead in the chase that he could hide in the maze of undergrowth. Blue being the ever-persistent hunter hated that strategy, of course.
Sy navigated the creek bed carefully, as he twisted and turned to maneuver in, around, and under the branches of fallen trees, and through the thickets of green briars. Now and then, he could get a glimpse of the azure sky. The ultimate quest of his expedition lay just a little further down the streambed.
The spring rains had brought his quest down from the mountains that lay to the north of the creek. Slowly yet steadily, it had collected over a period of months as the rains intensified with the advent of a new year. Sy wasn't exactly confident of his observations, but he thought the color of his prize was akin to the white cumulus clouds that drifted overhead, and yet it wasn't exactly as white as those massive billows spreading across the horizon. Rather, he thought, it was more a chalky and somewhat pallid hue. Yet, Sy was sure of one thing, it was healing in character, and he was on a personal venture to find and then to wallow in it.
Of course, the last thing a raccoon needs is to encounter a dog -- that is a dog other than Blue -- when on such an adventure as this. Although he knew of coons and dogs that had truces with each other, such arrangements were rare. Sy chuckled to himself, why such agreements were surely once in a coon's age.
So today at all costs, Sy wasn't about to run into a hound dog. No sir, he wasn't going to ruin this adventure. He stayed close to the bottom of the creek bed following each twist and turn of the serpentine road and always cautious to smells and sights that could alert him to any danger.
Stepping carefully, his hind legs carrying much of the 20 pounds of weight that he had gained over the winter, he saw to his right a plastic bleach bottle and a rusting Coke can. In another step he almost encountered a piece of green glass that could cut the pads of his small, subtle black feet.
There wasn't much you couldn't find in creeks any more, Sy reflected. Lately the long skinny plastic, or rubber looking balloons with a tip on the end draped over the limbs more frequently making one think of celebrations of some strange kind or another. Sy wasn't sure why so many balloons hung from limbs in the creek bottom. Maybe it had something to do with the parties the teenagers threw up in Mitchell Hollow. They were always throwing bottles, or cans, or these balloons into the creek.
No respect, Sy fumed. They just got no damn respect for my home any more. He puffed up in indignation and waddled on.
Deep black rings around his tail accented his soft, luxurious, shiny brown fur. Here and there a slice of silver or gray could be seen hidden in his lavish winter coat. His mask was a coal black, and his paws shined like rich patent leather when the sun struck them just right. A handsome coon he was -- handsome and proud. He was a coon in search of adventure and he had long awaited this day.
Slowly the tangle of brush began to thin. He eased past the remains of an old refrigerator and a few discarded tires. It wasn't much further now.
He inched closer to the red Georgia clay bank. Here and there a geode had washed into the bed from the caverns that laced the adjacent mountains, and made the gravel of the creek flow around it in a wavy pattern that showed the recent rains turbulence. It was important to not give himself away.
He stopped for a minute at a little water pocket and watched as flecks of gold flitted through the pool. His reflection in the water was almost blinding, what with the afternoon sun and blue, blue sky combining to make the pool a translucent mirror. As he pondered his reflection, moving his head this way and that to get a better look see, he realized he almost looked dignified. Yes sir, that was it, he was dignified in his appearance. No wonder all the sow coons vied for his attention. Dignified and handsome were two traits that served any raccoon well and Sy figured he had both.
Of course, discretion being the better part of valor, he would never say he was dignified. His actions would speak for him. Sy Coon -- a mighty fine specimen of the raccoon family he was.
He surveyed the puddle carefully, cocking one eye toward the water. Just when the chub minnow thought it was safe, Sy dove his paw in the water, grasped it, and held it tightly. Lunch is now served, he almost giggled. Dumb minnow. He snapped its neck and swallowed it whole. It was clean enough, he figured. This stuff about coons washing their food was hogwash, Sy thought, or would that be coonwash?
Never the one to ruminate over the vagaries of the English language, and realizing he had just made a pun, he chuckled softly to himself, and then belched.
He wasn't sure why, but humans really believed coons washed their food for cleanliness. In reality, Sy knew, it simply made swallowing your food easier. He leaned forward, placed his paws together, formed a cup and lifted some water to his face and drank. It felt cool, yet somewhat tepid, and the taste was refreshing to his dry mouth. The wind began its work of drying the water on his face, and he seemed more alert. He continued on his way. Just a little further.
The best he could recall it was just around the bend. As he approached the bend in the creek, he noticed the tree roots had let go of their grasp on the clay bank. The trees on the north side of the bank, mostly scrub oak and poplars, were leaning at precarious angles.
The next big wind, like the one they had last summer when the twisting wind had rampaged the area, and these trees would become new dens for coons and their families. Why, he thought, this one here would make a nice two-story level. I could put the whelps in the top near the split in the branches and the ole lady and me could take the lower half. Sy mentally noted that he would have to check this one out again, at the end of the season when leaves dropped from the trees.
Finally, rounding the bend and squinting so his near-sighted eyes could focus, he realized that he had arrived. There it was! Glimmering like diamonds, it was white like sugar mixed with loam, and just as fine in its texture. It was soft and luxurious, almost supple, and known to be healing and restorative. He waddled forward faster.
Sy had tolerated the winter, all the freezing weather, the snows that got so deep that he was unable to get out of his den tree for two weeks, and the early days of the spring rains waiting for just the right day, and today was the day. Truly, he was on an adventure! After the last few dreadful months, the sun had arrived to warm the air and blow a new breath into the land, and here he was on his first visit to the prize of the season.
It was piled deep. Deeper than he expected. It was about four feet deep and in a pocket washed against the bank. It was a vein of the finest sand in these parts, and it was all Sy's for the basking.
The sun was just right. It had passed slightly over sun straight up and had warmed the fine granules of sand to just the right temperature. Ah, he sighed, this is heavenly. He just knew it.
He waddled faster and then with a fast-paced stride and a slight leap he dove belly first rather ungracefully into the sand. It shimmered and eased up and around his paws, his belly, and his legs.
It was soft, warm and luxurious. He spread his four feet and massaged the sand into his belly first. It was truly an experience. The sand warmed his underside as he laid there, the sun warming his back.
Could it get any better?
Yep, Sy knew it could.
He rolled over now.
The sand clinging to his belly's fur adding accents to the rich brown and black hues. As he basked belly up, he hummed a tune to himself, and threw the sand up and over his body, his shoulders, and his head. He buried his paws deeper in the sand and felt its grittiness. It was warm, yet cool. It was dry, yet wet. It was without a doubt an exciting, refreshing, and healing experience. Sy had waited patiently all winter and part of the spring for this experience. The wait had been worth it. The sand began to rejuvenate his old weary bones. He felt alive and young again.
The sand flew upwards. The scene reminded him of hound dogs when they got wet and shook profusely to dry. He lay on his back, threw and shook the sand all-round, and enjoyed the experience to its fullest. Sand fell around him like globules of rain.
Surely, he must look somewhat less than dignified, he mused, but he didn't care.
The feeling overtook his passing interest in worrying about his self-consciousness.
What a life! Sy closed his eyes and reveled in his feelings.
_______________________________________
The walk to the creek from the back of the barn wasn't far. Cluck and Mert, Pop's two pet chickens often wandered down there and Pop had decided to get out and `stretch his legs,' as he was apt to say. He enjoyed walking through the woods and going down to the creek. The solitude of walking through the low-land woods, overgrown in places with sumac and honeysuckle, was a treat that was hard to describe to anyone unless they had grown-up in the country.
He loved the smell of the leaves decaying on the floor of the woods. He liked to watch the birds as they flitted about and announced his arrival in their home. The crows with their raucous and shrill `caw, caw' and the pileated woodpeckers, who flew from tree to tree looking for a snack of wood beetles and grubs, were life-long friends. He could talk to these friends. Talking was something he hadn't been able to do with many people, since Mamma passed last summer.
Thinking of Mamma's passing made him sad sometimes. Sometimes it made him happy. He and Mamma were more than husband and wife, they were best friends. Mamma was always the one that was `grounded,' as Pop would say. Pop was a dreamer, an explorer. Mamma paid the bills. Pop spent the money they made, and then some. Mamma never complained, not once. She loved him and all his compassion for people and animals, and his love of the land and tradition.
Mamma was one of a kind. Then, so was Pop.
The day was bright, just like an early spring day should be, and the air smelled renewed and fresh, Pop thought. He took his well-used Missouri Meerschaum pipe from his tattered and worn hunting coat pocket, knocked out the remaining Sir Walter dottle, and fumbled for his tobacco pouch.
His old leather pouch had been mended often. Mamma always made sure it was serviceable. Now the seams were breaking apart again, and Pop had tried, not very successfully however, to stitch them back together. The pouch smelled of years of tobacco. It was a comforting friend to Pop and the smooth West German tanned leather felt cool and right in Pop's hands.
He opened it, stuck the bowl of the old corncob in deep, and packed the rich Kentucky Burley ever so expertly. After searching each pocket he found, where it always was, his 50 plus-year old Zippo lighter. One flick, the flame burst forth, and he took a long draw. He exhaled and took another draw. The sun reflected off the stainless steel of the always-dependable lighter. The Zippo had survived the jungles of being `In Country.' It and a hat were the only two things left of that history. He had lost the hat years ago on a deer hunt. He thought of it fondly and often.
Strange what old soldiers think about. Even stranger, Pop thought, how it is that pipe smokers can't smell their tobacco when it is but inches from the end of their noses.
Pop knew the smell of Raleigh, of course. Most of his friends sat around the old coal stove in his garage and smoked it as well. He looked toward the creek and then returned to his walk. Pop had strolled through these woods many times in his 73-years, but he was always amazed at what he saw and heard new on each trip. He was following a well-worn deer trail.
To his left, he made a note of a young hickory tree overtaken by a muscadine vine. The vine had coiled itself around the tree like a snake and its strength had pressed a row of grooves into the sapling. The deformed tree would make an ideal walking staff. He made a mental note to return with his saw and get that tree. His friend Bert would like that for a Christmas present.
Like so many of his mental notes, he would make it and promptly forget it. The memory of his intention would return at inappropriate times, but he would never fully grasp its meaning again.
A chipmunk that had been content on sunning itself on a nearby rotting log was now scurrying from Pop's view. He was obviously very agitated about the intrusion into his private space because he abruptly turned and stared at the old man, as if to say, "What are you doing here?"
A big old fox squirrel, those pesky yet cute little rodents as Pop called them, clung tenaciously to a hickory tree. With its belly flat against the tree and his body aimed down the trunk, he raised his head in a cobra fashion and barked and scolded the old man for his presence.
"What's up dude?" Pop liked the word dude. He had heard it on a TV show. Something called the Simpsons back in the 80s. Some brat called Bart used it. Pop liked Bart, and he liked the word dude. This squirrel was surely a dude, if there ever was one. The squirrel tipped its head sideways and ran head first down the tree trunk. Stopping, it assumed the cobra position again and chattered, as if scolding Pop for even daring to talk back. Pop smiled. He loved to talk to these animals. Most were more intelligent than humans he knew.
Pop relit his pipe and continued onward. Walking carefully he began to notice how the deer that had used the path this morning had kicked up the leaves exposing the moist humus. Beautifully colored mushrooms spotted the trail. Might make good eating, Pop thought of the mushrooms.
Then again, they might not. Pop never took such a chance. His neighbor Pete Sakes died from eating mushrooms. Of course, Pop remembered, they were mushrooms from the store and there was a big to do over the man's will by his brother. Pop reckoned there was no need though to take chances.
Why some young buck might be plotting his very demise this instant. Pop chuckled softly to himself.
"Young buck," he whispered aloud. Young buck indeed. The humor was his and most people never could quite grasp it. That never bothered Pop much. Some people have it, others Pop figured, didn't.
What "it" was, Pop wasn't sure. He just knew he had it!
_______________________________________
"Sweet Caroline . . .Car-o-line . . ." An old 1970s Neil Diamond song rang through his head.
It would stay there off and on for the rest of the day and way into the night.
The creek bank lay just ahead over near and the other side of the downed trunk of the old poplar tree. The poplar had been a favorite place for him and Mamma. Initials from many visits were carved in its trunk. There were dates and hearts, initials and makeshift caricatures. PA + MA carved ever so expertly. Pop had sat on this trunk often listening to Ole Blue chase coon.
Course, Pop's mind meandered, Blue never caught coon never intended to, he figured. He thought more than once that there was a conspiracy between the dog and the coon. He guessed that they decided years ago to play a game of hide and seek, and do what a dog and a coon should do -- fuss and carry on -- to please the old man. What pleased him the most was hearing the chase on cold, moonlit nights with stars, so bright they shimmered like diamonds in the black pitch of the sky.
He loved to hear the baying of his dog. Blue would jump up, stretch his forepaws as high on the trunk of the tree as possible and wail a mournful, yet reassuring sound, a sound that reminded him why he loved his land and his freedom.
Land and freedom that had come to him, not without cost.
Before him now lay the creek. It was a wet weather creek. It ran only when the rains from the mountains forced water down its narrow banks and etched even more red clay from its sides, ever widening the passage. The creek dumped sand into pockets along the banks.
The sand was white mixed with rich loam. The loam gave it a slightly grey yet dazzling hue. The sand had been ripped and torn from the sandstone and limestone of the nearby mountains.
It was always considered a precious commodity. Pop had used the sand in the chimney and fireplace of his cabin. Mixed with mortar, it made the glue that held the stone together in the fireplace that warmed the cabin he and Mamma had built. Pop had much respect and use for these pockets of sand. He loved walking barefoot in them.
Such walks in the sand reminded him of another place and time. A place and time that he loved and longed for.
It was Mamma's favorite place to visit -- Pawley's Island, South Carolina. Oh for
the memories they shared there. Some he could grasp clearly. Others were fogged by what some called "old-timers'" disease.
The sand helped him recall listening to ocean waves and gulls. It evoked memories of solitude and healing. Pockets, or potholes, that's what they were -- pot holes of healing sands. There were no beaches, nor endless overlapping waves from the ocean here. Just spots of sand along the bed of a wet weather creek. White but not quite white, where a not too grown man could go, walk barefoot, pretend, and be healed.
This was healing sand. Everyone knew that in these hills. Sand that made you want to ask it where it came from and where would it go. Would it end up at the beach that he and Mamma loved so much? Or would it deposit itself in someone's chimney and never make its journey to the ocean?
Yep, healing sand. That's what Mamma and Aunt Anzie has called it. That's what he always called it when he talked with Mamma on long, cold winter nights as he sat in front of the fireplace and thought about his wife of fifty years.
The beach was their refuge in times of personal crisis and tragedy. The healing sands were their retreat from a world that didn't choose to understand the depth of their love and feelings for each other, or the uniqueness of their relationship.
Yet, there had been happy times too. The healing sands at the beach had helped them overcome the loss of their beloved Sirah Ilyana. He talked to her sometimes, too. Sirah was the child that would always live in their hearts and souls. She was the daughter of his mind.
The healing sand had helped Pop when he had lost his ego and identity. It had been snatched away by a corporate take-over many years ago. It had been that tragedy that, some say, caused Pop to become "lost" in his own world. They whispered words like "nervous breakdown," or "tetched in the head." Inwardly Pop always smiled. He knew that it was really the beginning of his life, not the end.
Today could be a barefoot day. A day to enjoy the healing sand that came from the mountains.
As he approached the creek, he took care to watch his steps carefully. He wasn't as young as he used to be. Care was necessary now, unlike his younger days when he would charge through the woods oblivious to any dangers. He had his share of twisted ankles and knees, and cuts and scratches. These days care and caution were essential. Old men that lived alone didn't much care about being bed ridden with a twisted ankle or knee.
He eased himself on to the trunk of the poplar and peered across the creek into the woods on the other side. They were more open. A deer trail, one different than the one he had just used, inched its way up the hill and around several rock outcroppings. He had seen many deer hunting from this very stand. Only when he and Mamma needed the meat did he ever shoot a deer. He enjoyed watching the whitetails too much to shoot indiscriminately. Only once in more than forty years of hunting had he had to shoot more than once to make a kill. That had been the most difficult hunt ever.
As he surveyed the creek he noticed a movement in its bed. A dark, furry critter -- coon -- thought Pop -- was weaving itself through the undergrowth and around the scrags. The coon obviously thought no one was around. Pop could just imagine he was humming a tune to himself. Perhaps, it was much like Pop's rendition of "Sweet Caroline," which ground on and on in his head on a scratchy record player that never seemed to remember all the words that went with the music.
Pop wondered, what song would a coon be humming? Perhaps, it was Stephen Foster's "Old Dog Tray" or "Three Little Fishes?" He smiled to himself.
The coon came closer. It headed toward the pocket of sand. Pop sat very still, took the pipe from his mouth and put it into his field jacket pocket. The smell of smoke would alert his friend to his presence. This he didn't want to do.
Coon waddled from one side of the creek to the next. Pausing only long enough to grab a snack and wash its face. Its bandit mask made it a comical sight. The masked chub minnow grabber.
Then he saw it, a pocket of sand. The coon executed its rendition of a belly flop, or at least in Pop's mind he did, it was really more like a diving leap with all four feet spread, right into the center of pothole. Its belly molded the sand and he began to appear to bathe in it.
Why that coon was kicking and throwing sand this way and that. Pop almost laughed, but he contained himself. There was no need to upset coon and make him feel self-conscious.
After several minutes of watching the escapades, Pop cleared his throat and asked, "Whatcha doing good buddy?" He looked down from his perch on the poplar trunk into the creek bed with a smile on his aged face. Coon stopped, looked at Pop, and realizing it was an old friend, he waved.
Pop waved back. "Did you see that Mamma?"
Mamma wasn't there to answer, of course. Pop caught himself. He would tell her the story tonight. It was a story she would enjoy.
END
Originally written November, 30 1992. This version revised, expanded and rewritten June 1, 1993.
Until next time.
Dr. Darryl
L. Darryl Armstrong
ARMSTRONG and Associates
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