Always read the fine print.

Posted on May 22, 2015 by judithclarkewrites under Family, Laughter, tears, Remember

Early in May, for some reason, it occurred to me to check the expiry date on my English husband’s permanent resident visa, previously called “green card.” Good thing I looked — expiration, May 28, 2015.

Ten years ago, we had a nice day trip to Charlotte, NC to renew both his card and his British passport. This year, a trip anywhere is an ordeal, so I did a search to see if USCIS is doing on-line registrations. Yes-s!

There was a stumbling block on the very first page. Peter couldn’t remember the year he came to the U.S, but he knew he was 28, so he added that age to his birthyear, 1938, and came up with 1966. (I was pretty sure he “got off the boat” eight years before we met in 1974.) The month and date, port of entry, and other necessary details like his alien registration number were lost in his fog. Finally, I broke the code of alpha/numerics on his passport and deduced he arrived in New York City on Wednesday, November 9, 1966.

Over several days I filled in the six pages. When, I called Peter to read over the document, he stumbled over his mother’s first name, Mabel.

“Everyone called her Doll,” he argued.

“Yes, but that was her nickname,” I reminded him. “Her given name was Mabel.” After some discussion he agreed.

When he read through his own physical characteristics he said his eyes were not hazel. “What color are they then?” I asked, deleting hazel.

He went to the mirror and after studying his eyes for some time, he said, “I’d call them bluey/browny/green.”

I typed h-a-z-e-l into the blank again.

After he’d read the fine print and signed electronically, he asked, “Am I good forever now?”

I told him he’d have to renew in ten years. “But, you’ll be 87, so they probably won’t chase you down.”

“You mean without the card, I could’ve…”

Peter with his favorite pint, London Pride.

“Oh, darn,” I laughed, picking up on his thread, “yes, you might have been deported if I hadn’t realized your card was going to expire. You could have been shipped back across the pond to spend the rest of your life in the corner pub… singing your bawdy songs…and…”

“Playing ‘arrahs’,” he said wistfully. [Arrahs = arrows = darts to my Englishman.]

“Sorry, I already I clicked ‘send,'” I said. “But in 2025, if immigration still wants you, you can go back ‘ome.”

Header photo: Peter enjoys the gardens, Isles of Scilly, England, 2009.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Have I done him wrong?

Posted on May 20, 2015 by judithclarkewrites under Advice, Dementia, Experts say

This sentence from an Alzheimer’s Association website article jumped right off the screen at me:

Most people living with Alzheimer’s Disease are not aware of their diagnosis.

What?

“Despite…the benefits of clear and accurate disclosure,” the article continued, “[only about 45 percent] of seniors diagnosed with Alzheimer’s…[have been] told the diagnosis by their health care provider.” And their caregivers don’t know either. On the other hand, more than 90 percent…of cancer and cardiovascular patients do know their diagnoses.

Whoa-a!

There is still only one way to diagnose Alzheimer’s definitively and that’s through brain autopsy. If the person exhibited Alzheimer-like symptoms while alive and the brain tissue contains the microscopic physical abnormalities typical of the disease, a definitive diagnoses can be made.

Physicians can correctly diagnose Alzheimer’s disease about 90 percent of the time while the patient is alive, based on mental and behavioral symptoms, physical examinations, neuropsychological tests, and lab tests.

But there’s still no cure.

Every 67 seconds, someone in the US develops Alzheimer’s.

Peter’s neurologist diagnosed his dementia about seven years ago. She didn’t use the “A” word, rather she said simply, “Dementia.” I breathed a sigh of relief, and when we got into the car to come home, I started crying. Peter wondered why.

“Because you don’t have Alzheimer’s,” I said, “it’s ‘only’ dementia.”

“Is that good?” he asked.

“Well, no, but it’s better than Alzheimer’s,” I said.

By 2050, there could be as many as 16 million people with Alzheimer’s.

He asked no further questions then or since. Every now and then he’ll say his memory is getting worse, so I remind him it won’t get better. I’ve never used the dreaded “A” word, but I wonder if I should? Deep down, does he know?

Have I done my husband a disservice by not laying it out? Should I attempt to do it now? If he already knows or suspects, he would never say anything. That’s not his style. He’s always played things close to his chest.

More than 5 million Americans have Alzheimer’s.

Experts advise telling patients and families because
of the need to:

Plan for the future
Take care of financial and legal matters
Address potential safety issues
Learn about possible future living arrangements
Develop support networks

Been there, done all that, without having The Conversation. Have I done him wrong, to paraphrase a line from an old Mae West movie? I don’t know.

I really had to look hard for something to fulfill my laugh-a-day pledge. This one works for me. Hope it does for you.

The doctor says to his patient, “I have good news and bad news.”
‘Tell me the bad news first, Doc.”
“You have Alzheimer’s disease.”
“Oh no! What’s the good news?”
“You can go home and forget about it.”

Graphics Alzheimer’s Organization©

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Which end up?

Posted on May 11, 2015 by judithclarkewrites under Experts say, Sickness & Health

Former NBC “Today” anchor Katie Couric had a colonoscopy on live t.v. fifteen years ago, remember? Surely I could write about the subject, if delicately put.

It was my husband’s turn a few weeks ago, not on t.v. of course, though a situation comedy came to mind — Jackie Gleason’s, perhaps.

“Why do I have to have one?” Peter demanded as I handed him four little pills to start the cleansing process.

“Because you had polyps five years ago,” I said.

“Does everyone have colonoscopies?”

“They save lives,” I preached, “and they’re recommended for everyone 0ver fifty.”

He grumbled.

No one likes to prep for a colonoscopy, but a patient with dementia is “lucky.” He won’t remember from one minute to the next why he has to drink quarts of gritty stuff dissolved in an electrolyte-filled sports drink, why he can’t eat for twenty-four hours, nor why he shouldn’t take the dog for a long walk lest he get caught short!

Peter is not a morning person so his early appointment wasn’t to his liking either. We waited just minutes before the nurse called him. “I’ll come too,” I said.

“No, I’ll get you when he’s ready.”

I knew she’d be back quickly. “Mrs. Clarke, come with me, please.” She chuckled as we walked. “When I asked Mr. Clarke why he was here, he didn’t know.”

“He can’t remember,” I said.

“He thought endoscopy?”

I laughed. “Um, no, wrong end. Colonoscopy.”

After she’d taken his BP, asked more questions (which I answered), and started an IV, she left so he could undress and put on a hospital gown. He didn’t understand why he had to take all his clothes off — he’d keep his knickers on, he said. “Nope, those too,” I insisted, as I tied him into a gown obviously designed for someone three times larger than my skinny husband.

Soon, our jolly, effervescent gastroenterologist popped in, offered a few reassuring words, and away they went.

Peter was back within thirty minutes, accompanied by a giggling nurse and chortling anesthesiologist. “Your husband is a riot,” he said. “When Dr. R finished, I asked Peter to open his eyes, but he opened his mouth like he was at the dentist!” Yup, he still had the wrong end!

The doctor came in to deliver good news and bad. “You had four tiny polyps,” he explained, “and they looked ‘fine,’ but we will send them off for biopsy.” Peter’s blank look told me he didn’t understand a word. “But the good news is, it takes about seven years for any new polyps to become cancerous, if they’re going to, so no further colonoscopies will be required.“ In other words, age will probably claim him before an attacking polyp. “Sounds terrible, that option,” the doctor whispered to me.

I shook my head. “He’d rather that than another prep.” Peter waggled his eyebrows in agreement.

The doctor showed off the “beautiful pictures” of Peter’s colon as if they were photos of his grandchildren. I raised my left eyebrow to say that only a gastroenterologist would think they were pretty! That prompted him to trot out a joke from his vast repertoire, this one about Yankees. I reminded him, a Southern gentleman, that I’m a Yankee.

He was undeterred. “Yankees are like hemorrhoids. When they come south, they’re a pain in the ass, and the pain doesn’t go away until they head back up north.”

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Inside out or outside in?

Posted on April 27, 2015 by judithclarkewrites under Chores, Laughter

When he’s inside looking out, Nobby presses his nose against the family room window. When he’s outside and wants in, he presses his nose against the same window. The lower panes are always smudged with doggie nose prints.

Friday was brilliantly sunny for a change. I suggested to Peter that he might wash that big window. “What do I use, and how do I do it?” he asked.

I set him up with spray cleaner and cloths and suggested he start in the middle section. Next thing I knew he was washing the kitchen window on the side of the house where a step ladder is required. No doggie slobbers on that window. I nudged him to the back of the house.

A few minutes later I noticed he had the yucky old rag I use to wipe spills off the kitchen floor. Bad enough he was using the grungy cloth, but besides that, he was outside and the spray cleaner was inside.

About then a friend walked in and complimented Peter on the sparkly the window beside the table. I laughed. “He hasn’t done that one yet,” I said.

“I have no idea which ones I’ve done,” Peter said. “I’m just trying to do what I’m told.”

An hour later, the designated windows were shining! I don’t know how he did it, and it’s probably better not to ask. At least he does windows!

Header photo: Window, cleaner than it was before!

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Note: A good time to laugh is anytime you can.

Posted on April 18, 2015 by judithclarkewrites under Laughter, Remember

Adventures. That’s what my friend Joanne and I called our treks to out-of-the-way places for lunch, sight-seeing or shopping. Sometimes we were gone most of the day. That stopped when I realized I couldn’t leave my husband on his own for so long. So one day Jo and I decided we’d walk right around the corner to Lefty’s for lunch.

“Peter, come with us,” Joanne said.

“No, no, I’m good,” he said. I knew he really didn’t want to listen to us chatter the way we do.

The restaurant is quite small, so we went early to beat the lunch crowd. Our mouths were going faster than the traffic outside when I, facing the street, saw Peter walk past.

“Wonder where he’s going?” I said. I wasn’t worried because he often walks to the grocery a block further. We took our time over lunch. When we got up to leave, I glanced at a table a few feet away, and there sat my husband, his back to us, with a beer in front of him.

Neither Joanne nor I saw him come in. We sidled over to his table and I slid into the chair beside him. “Can I take your order, Sir?” I asked.

He was startled. “I’ve already eaten,” he said, straight-faced. Joanne started laughing.

“I saw you walk past an hour ago.”

“I came back…!”

“Didn’t you see us?” I asked.

“No, didn’t you see me?”

“No, but you must have looked right at us when you came in…”

“I didn’t see you.”

That shouldn’t have surprised me. It isn’t unusual for my husband to come into the room and not see me sitting on the sofa. I wasn’t surprised that we hadn’t seen him since we were at a right angle to his table and his back was to us.

Artist Rebecca Murtagh’s, Post-it notes installation, Hamilton College, Clinton, NY

A few weeks later, our friends Jerry and Shelia were here. We were going to Lefty’s for dinner, and I told them about Peter not seeing Joanne and me there one lunchtime. They laughed, as did Peter, though I was sure he didn’t remember the day. I stage-whispered to Jerry, “Good stuff for my blog.” He nodded. I should have made a note.

We went around the corner, and while we waited for our food we amused ourselves trying to identify the photos of famous lefties beside our table. We knew da Vinci and Rembrandt, Einstein and Edison, but were stymied by a man I thought was Woodrow Wilson (Henry Ford), and a woman who, we found out, was Helen Keller. Peter joked he’d never met any of them.

As we carried on like the old friends we are, I suddenly thought, this is good stuff, too, but the idea I’d had a few hours earlier hadn’t stuck. I asked Jerry if he remembered my idea.

“Unh uh…oh, Lefty’s!” he blurted.

Shelia hooted. “You two can’t remember the story and we’re in the restaurant where it happened!” She looked at my husband and laughed. “Pete, who has memory problems now, hm?”

Shared laughs are the best.

Art Fry, co-creator of Post-It® notes, started using the “light tack” notes — 3M’s “solution without a problem” — to mark his hymnal at choir practice. Art’s bright idea is one I use to help Peter, and should use to help myself!

Header photo: Rainbow of Post-It notes.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

This is the way he makes our bed.

Posted on April 12, 2015 by judithclarkewrites under Autism, Control, Dementia, Laughter, Lifelong

Peter helps around the house…creatively. He can no long fix or build things like he used to, so he’s invented chores and ways to do them.

He scuffs at embryonic maple leaves and tiny pear blossom petals — they hitch rides inside attached to Nobby — off the family room rug with the edge of his shoe, then picks them up and carries them to the wastebasket. Using the hand vac would be quicker and do a better job, but he likes his shoe method.

After I’ve done my weekly run-through downstairs with the vacuum cleaner, Peter straightens the fringe on the rugs, sometimes with the dog’s wire brush, sometimes with a comb, once with my pastry fork! I don’t care whether the fringe is untangled or not, but the pastry fork is off limits!

My husband has an ongoing obsession with picking up the tiny twigs that snap off the trees. He mounds them into piles in the woods or crams them into an empty birdseed bucket that I dump when he’s not looking. He polishes the kitchen countertops until they gleam, but he doesn’t move appliances out of the way to do it. There’s no doubt where the coffeemaker, knife block, tea kettle, and mixer live because the unbuffed areas tell the story.

I’m usually up and out at least an hour before Peter is, but when I come back from my walk he’ll have “made the bed.” That is, his side of the bed is smoothed, pillows plumped, spread straightened. My side remains as it was when I crept out — strangled pillows, tossed quilt, crumpled sheets.

When I hang laundry out back, I often ask him to bring it in. He brings his jeans, his shirts, his socks. His excuse for not bringing my clothes, our sheets or our dishtowels is, “I didn’t know you wanted them!”

That excuse, and the novel bed-making, has ASD (Austism Spectrum Disorder, fka Asperger Syndrome) written all over it. It’s nothing to do with dementia.

Peter charms this lass.

I’ve often said, my husband’s dementia is much easier for me to deal with than ASD. Neither can be “cured,” but ASD sometimes manifests as what I call “The Mt. Rushmore Effect” —stone-faced, remote, cold. And yet, the man I fell in love with all those years ago can be funnier, sweeter, and more charming than anyone I’ve ever met.

I’m sure Peter thinks his ASD is a non-issue since he’s lived with it successfully all his life; dementia, though, has foiled him and he does not go gently.

An excellent “Masterpiece Theater” series*, “Doc Martin”, makes both of us laugh no matter how many times we watch it. The Doc (Martin Clunes) is a highly intelligent surgeon who has a blood phobia and serious relationship issues with his patients, and with Louisa (Caroline Katz), the woman he tries to marry. Although sometimes cringe-inducing, the series is doubly funny to me, first, for its pure comedy, and second, because Doc Martin is my husband all over again. Peter doesn’t see himself, while I relate to Louisa’s devotion to and frustration with the man she adores.

* “Doc Martin” is also available on Netflix.

Header photo: All pictures, Middleton Place Gardens, North Carolina, 2011.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Caregiver needed. Flexible hours.

Posted on March 30, 2015 by judithclarkewrites under Advice, Caregiver

This caregiver needed a caregiver this month after I let myself get sucked into a computer scam that flattened me. The backstory is posted here.

I needed my husband’s shoulder to cry on, but although physically present, he just couldn’t grasp the enormity of what happened. And, yes, I blame myself for not taking better care of me. If I’d been at full throttle I don’t think I would have fallen for the scam.

During this time, a new report arrived from the Alzheimer’s Association. Two sentences stood out:

Alzheimer’s takes a devastating toll on caregivers. Nearly sixty percent of Alzheimer’s and dementia caregivers rate the emotional stress of caregiving as high or very high; about forty percent suffer from depression. …

I knew the scam and resulting mess were the tip of the iceberg, but it was my husband’s quickening decline that had caused me to sink. No place to go but up.

Up was blue sky after a snow squall, warm spring breezes after frigid weather, a temporary leveling out of Peter’s downward spiral — a few days of normal.

Against advice from experts and people who’ve walked in my shoes, I’ve dropped a lot of my outside activities, choosing instead to stay close to home with my husband. One thing I haven’t dropped is the Writers’ Group I’ve belonged to for six years. We meet one evening a month. When I came home after this month’s meeting, Peter was watching t.v. as always, but, curiously, he’d closed all the interior doors and had taken three loaves of frozen bread from the freezer, thrown the wrappers away, and left them to thaw in the bread drawer. Nothing terribly significant, but my alarm button tripped. I knew that was the last time I could leave him on his own for an evening.

My stress level peaked again. There was still more work to be sure all the scam-caused problems were resolved, and I had to accept that I needed more help at home.

A few nights later, when I tapped Peter’s leg with my foot to stop his snoring, he growled, jumped out of bed and plodded downstairs. He was gone nearly ten minutes. When he came back, he rolled under the covers was asleep instantly.

Last night he talked in his sleep. He started doing that occasionally several months ago. “Hello,” he said. He sounded wide awake. “Oh…I’m OK…I’m just trying to remember…yes…I know….” Abruptly, he was asleep again.

Were these episodes signals that night terrors and sundowners had crept in? I didn’t know, but there was no doubt we needed another caregiver in addition to Bill, Peter’s occasional companion of nearly four years.

This morning, when I told Peter about his “phone” conversation in the night, he said, “Not me! I don’t talk on the phone.” True, he’s hates phones. But it was funny to hear him doing in his sleep what he never does awake.

We caregivers take our laughs where we find them, even if it’s a dreamtime call in the middle of the night.

Header photo: The British Museum, 2006

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

What watch?

Posted on February 26, 2015 by judithclarkewrites under Family, Remember

Today is Peter’s seventy-seventh birthday. We don’t do “hoopla” anymore, primarily because he doesn’t like fuss, and also because he forgets not only his own day, but mine and every other family member’s too.

March 1, 2008, the day Peter picked his puppy, Nobby.

Seven years ago was the last time he agreed to a family dinner. I remember because I’d fumed and worried about the present I’d decided to give him: the option of going to the Humane Society to rescue a dog or to a kennel to pick out a GoldenDoodle puppy.

Was I crazy for even thinking of another puppy? Yep! Was I surprised when he picked that option? Nope.

It was a milestone birthday, his seventieth. Even though I favored a rescue, I knew he’d had his heart set on having a GoldenDoodle since we’d first seen one the year before.

April 20, 2008 Can I go under this thing??

Can I eat it?

Will “cute” open it?

This year I went downscale. I found an inexpensive — make that cheap — watch that lights up at the press of a button. Over the years I’d given him a Mickey Mouse watch to feed his big-eared rodent fixation, plus at least three expensive watches. Somehow he managed to break them all beyond repair.

Now, though, he is obsessed with knowing the time even though he can’t remember it for more than a few seconds. He is now, and has always been, late for everything. He can’t remember that the “new” cable box we’ve had for a year doesn’t have a digital clock on it like the old one did. When he looks at the little window showing the channel, he thinks it shows the time, even if it’s a bright, sunny high noon outside and the channel number reads 838.

This new watch was made in China. I scratched that off the box, as I did the $14.99 price sticker. I “wrapped” it in a bright green envelope, put a years out-of-date birthday stamp on it, and hid it under the newspaper. When he came downstairs I heard him say Oh! when he uncovered the present. He came to me here at my desk and said, “I didn’t even know it was my birthday.”

“Really?” I said, though I was already pretty sure he hadn’t remembered. He shook his head. “Not even with my message on your dry erase board and the reminder on your calendar that’s been there all month?” I said.

“What calendar?” he asked.

“The giant white one on the kitchen counter.”

“No, I’ve never seen it.”

“Well, Happy Birthday!” I said.

“Now I have no excuse to be late, do I?” he asked, looking at his wrist.

“Yes, you do,” I said, “because you’ll forget to look at your watch.”

Later Peter came to tell me he and Nobby were going for a walk. “Won’t be long,” he said.

“I hope not, you need to help shovel snow. Do you have your watch on?”

“What watch?” he said. When I sputtered he laughed and pulled up his sleeve to show me that he did have his new watch on and hadn’t forgotten about it…yet.

Peter didn’t want me to bake a cake for him, so I froze one in the fresh snow outside.

Header photo: Nobby protects his ball.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Random kindnesses. Observed. Received.

Posted on February 22, 2015 by judithclarkewrites under Task, Thankful

A young man of twenty-five or so stood in front of me in the quick check-out lane at the grocery. In his right hand he held a plastic bag of groceries, in his left, red roses. When it was his turn he lay the roses carefully on the conveyor. “These are for you,” he said to the checker.

“What about the things in your hand?” she asked.

“No, I already paid for these earlier. The flowers are for you,” he explained. “You said you were having a bad day…”

She was flustered, but picked the flowers up and smelled them. “Really? For me?” She rang them up, he gave her cash and left quickly. She looked at me astounded. “It wasn’t that bad a day,” she said, “but now it’s a lot better.”

Random act of kindness, observed.

Yesterday, following a week of bitter cold and snow, I was out early shoveling walks and driveway. A young man and his mother walked carefully towards me. He was holding her arm. We exchanged “Good mornings” and observations about the cold, then they got into the big gray pick-up truck that had been parked in front of our house, off and on, all week.

I kept shoveling.

Walks fiinished, I was working my way back along the drive when I noticed the truck had returned to the space carved amidst the plowed-up snow. “Hello again,” the man called out. “I thought I should introduce myself,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind me parking there, but I can’t get in and out of my driveway right now. It’s so steep and icy.”

No problem, I told him. Then he asked if he could finish shoveling our drive for me, and assured me it would be a pleasure to help.

I was gobsmacked. “Thanks,” I said, “but I actually like to shovel snow.” I explained we’d moved here from upstate New York and were used to deep snows. “Besides,” I said, “my husband will be out soon to finish this off.”

“You sure?” he asked. I nodded, he wished me a good day, and walked off.

Random act of kindness, received.

When I told Peter about the incident, he wondered if I’d told the fellow that I like to shovel snow. “Yes, and I told him that if you didn’t get outside and do your part, I’d bury you in a snow drift and leave you until spring.” I handed him his jacket and shoved him towards the door.

I knew he’d laugh, and he did.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

My funny Valentine.

Posted on February 14, 2015 by judithclarkewrites under Poetic thoughts, Remember

By our first Valentine’s Day together, 1975, I’d already learned that my future — seven years in the future! — husband Peter wasn’t going to be the mushy-gushy Valentine type. He often did sweet things, but he disliked intensely having to do something because the calendar or Hallmark demanded it.

I was a bit disappointed he hadn’t even bought me a card, but he redeemed himself when he suggested a walk in the park, in the fresh snow, near my house. He was not a snow-lover like me so he was back in my good graces for even thinking of it.

After we’d walked over hill and dale for a while he told me to stop. I was to stand still and face away from him. He trotted off while I admired the view. Minutes ticked by.

“OK! Turn around!” he yelled. He stood some distance away, pointing proudly to a big heart shape he’d paced off in the snow. In the center he’d “written” I love you. Way better than any card he might have purchased!

I didn’t expect any Valentine’s remembrance today, and so far I haven’t been disappointed. I stuck a silly card inside the newspaper for him and he laughed. He gave me a hug and kiss to say sorry for forgetting again. “You should have reminded me,” he said.

“What? The big red heart on your calendar wasn’t enough?” I said with a chuckle. “It’s OK, you can take me for coffee.” I handed him some cash.

We went to our favorite spot where I feasted on an almond croissant, he, an apple turnover. The bakery was more mobbed than usual for a Saturday morning. A festively dressed man played romantic songs on a keyboard.

“Do you remember our very first Valentine’s day together?” I asked my husband of now thirty-three years. “It was 1975…we met in May the year before…”

“Did we have coffee here?” he guessed.

“No-o, we weren’t even married then, and we didn’t live here anyway.”

“How can you remember that? I don’t even remember yesterday?” he sputtered.

So I told him about the heart he’d made in the snow and how sweet, how romantic, it was. He shook his head sadly and gave me an apologetic smile. Suddenly he brightened and asked, with a nod towards the musician, “Does he take requests?”

“I’m sure he would,” I said.

He sighed. “I can’t remember any romantic songs to ask him…”

source Pinterest

We haven’t had any measurable snow yet this year, though it is snowing quite hard right this minute, and it’s sticking! Maybe later I’ll repeat the story about our first Valentine’s day, and together we can make a snowy heart in our backyard.

As long as we have memories, yesterday remains;
As long as we have hope, tomorrow waits;
As long as we have love, today is beautiful.

Header photo: Knock-out rose.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Dementia isn't funny.

Caregiver Judith Clarke looks for laughs every day.

Author Archives: judithclarkewrites

Always read the fine print.

Have I done him wrong?

Which end up?

Inside out or outside in?

Note: A good time to laugh is anytime you can.

This is the way he makes our bed.

Caregiver needed. Flexible hours.

What watch?

Random kindnesses. Observed. Received.

My funny Valentine.