Poet, Author, Composer....
Claiming That Sanders’ Name
322. Claiming That Sanders’ Name
My grandmother (Granny), Irene, had nine children. One of those children was Adalyne. Norma Davis was the daughter of Adalyne, and Paula Davis was the daughter of Norma.
When Paula was in her teens and complaining about the unfairness of life, Norma took hold of Paula’s shoulders and said seriously to her, “Remember—you are a Sanders. And Sanders women are strong women!”
Paula now says, “Mom (Norma) embodied that same strength and I learned at her knee. When I was older, Mom talked about Great Grandmother’s life and her strength. I felt it was a responsibility to be strong and stand up for myself.”
I can imagine Paula straightening herself and living into the Sanders’ strength.
Remembering Granny
321. Remembering Granny
Irene Sanders—when I was a little girl I called her Grandma, and I didn’t know a lot about her. When I became a mother myself, then my Mother was Grandma to my children, and at this point we all started calling my Grandma—Granny.
It is of Granny that I write. Her mother and father were married in Vermont in 1885 and left to homestead in Missouri. Irene Joyce Sanders (Granny) was born in 1888.
She received a Teacher’s Certificate in 1907 from the Cherokee Nation Indian Territory. In 1908 she was assigned to Grade 1 in Wagoner City Schools. In 1909 she also married Leslie Lee Sanders, a boy preacher.
She married Leslie Lee Sanders in 1909, and they had nine children. Notice their names, birth dates, and birth places. Her oldest child was my mother, Carolyn Elizabeth born in Ardmore, Oklahoma in 1910. The second child was William Parker Sanders, born in Ashland, Nebraska in 1911. Third child was Mary Adalyne Sanders born in Wagoner, Oklahoma in 1912. Fourth child was Leslie Lee Sanders, Jr., born in 1913 in Spokane, Washington. Her fifth child was B. H. Carroll (Knobby) Sanders who was born in 1917 in Kansas City, Missouri. Her sixth child was Miriam Elisabeth Sanders, born in 1918 in Cadiz, Kentucky. Seventh child was Allen J. Sanders (Tubby), born in 1920 in Indianapolis, Indiana.
It was here that Leslie Lee’s entanglement with the federal prison system began. He was arrested for mail fraud and was in prison very briefly in 1920. Then Irene’s eighth and ninth children were born in Indianapolis; Ferne Joyce in 1922 and Elinor Stewart in 1924.
At some point after Elinor was born, once again Leslie Lee Sanders was arrested and convicted of mail fraud and virtually spent the rest of his life in federal prison.
Granny had Miriam, who she may have met in Kansas City, Missouri, who lived with her and helped with the nine children. Granny’s teaching certificate was not recognized by Indianapolis schools and she found a job as an aide at the Roberts School for Crippled Children. Miriam stayed at home, cared for the children, and did tailoring work for one of the major department stores in Indianapolis.
The last years of her life, Granny lived with her oldest daughter, Carolyn, who was of course my Mother. In Granny’s life there have to be hundreds of stories. One of my regrets is that when I visited I didn’t ask the skillions of questions I now have. But I have enough to put together the picture of a strong woman.
In one of the letters that accompanied her certificate of highschool graduation, the principal wrote: “This is to certify that Miss Irene Parker this year graduates from Wagoner Highschool, having completed the literary course of study in this institution. Her diligence and studious habits have won for her a fine record in deportment and scholarship. Her vigor of mind and strength of character insure her success as a teacher.”
Strength of character—yes, we know about that.
Premises for…
320. Premises for…..
I wrote them for my thesis at New York University. They were based on the model of music therapy that I had set up for the nursing home where I worked. The page is titled: Twelve Premises of the Model. They are written in spaces created out of a circle—a mandala—so none is more important than any other.
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See each person whole—also yourself—also the setting.
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Make contact with each person, musical if possible.
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Be alert for change within the person.
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Be aware of the long-term nature of the work.
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Use large groups to accomplish goals, gather information, do individual work within.
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Use small groups to target problems and populations.
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Work on your attitude about aging and death.
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Use individual work to end isolation and to work with persons who appear to be dying.
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Build a music history with each person.
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Maintain two balances—your time and energy; the kinds of work you do.
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Stay aware of the reality of deterioration.
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Find a song of connection.
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It’s a little bit interesting to read that list now, thinking not of working in a nursing home but of living my life at age 79. A lot of them still work.
The Bear Family
319. The Bear Family
Dara was youngest of my four children and when the three older ones went off to school she created an imaginary bear family to keep her company. The bears went everywhere with us.
One day we had been at church where I worked on some projects and she played in the nursery with the bear family. Suddenly I realized time had slipped away and we needed to go, so I gathered her quickly and we rushed to the car.
Fifteen minutes away from the church she suddenly burst into tears. I kept driving but said, “What? What’s the matter?” With tears running down her cheeks she sobbed, “We left the bear family at the church.”
I assured her that they knew the way home and that when we got there, they would probably be there ahead of us. She was not convinced. The tears continued. I turned the car around and headed back to pick them up.
As we entered the church, the choir director was there and I said to Dara, “You run quick and get the bear family, while I talk here for a minute.” She scooted off as I explained to him what we were doing.
Suddenly she appeared around the corner, skipping joyfully and shouting happily, “Mama, you were right. They went home!”
It still was worth turning around for.
(This story can be found in the book Wisdom of Children and Questions for God by Ann Freeman Price.)
Never Alone (Part 2)
318. Never Alone (Part 2)
Agnes and I wrote a song together in the nursing home where I worked. The words were these:
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I’m never really alone, I’m never really alone.
There’s always somebody here, and I’m never really alone.
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Sometimes I feel really lonely,
Sometimes I feel really left.
Sometimes I feel so very sad—
Then I remember, I remember that
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I’m never really alone, I’m never really alone.
There’s always somebody here, and I’m never really alone.
—
I jumped to a conclusion with this song. And my conclusion was that Agnes felt left because she had been left in the nursing home. She and I never talked about it. I just believed that that was the reason she felt so alone.
On a summer vacation to Cuddyhunk Island, the friend I was visiting and I accompanied a woman in her 90’s on a boat to the mainland. She was not feeling well and her family thought she needed to be in a hospital. As we passed time I told her some of my stories and told her about Agnes and sang the song for her.
When I came to the line “sometimes I feel really left,” this woman took my arm just as Agnes had done and said, “Oh yes—that’s so true.” I finished the song and asked her to tell me about the truth of it. She said, “I am constantly feeling left as my friends and family members die and leave me.” I told her about my assumption and she said, “Oh no—I feel sure that that woman—was her name Agnes?—yes, I feel sure that Agnes was tired of saying goodbye to those she knew and loved and sometimes she felt alone and left.”
Never Alone
317. Never Alone
As I wandered the halls of the nursing home where I worked, one of the things I often did was to stop and create a song with a resident. One day I came upon a woman sitting in the hallway and crying out in distress. I knew she was often confused and sometimes disruptive. I walked toward her with my guitar, saying, “Agnes, what’s the matter?” She looked at me and said, “Oh I don’t know. I’m never really alone.”
I said, “That sounds like the first line of a song. Let’s write it together,” and I sang those words twice. “I’m never really alone. I’m never really alone.” And then I stopped and said, “But Agnes, why not? Why aren’t you ever really alone?” Agnes looked around and said, “There’s always somebody here.” I said, “Perfect—it’s even the right rhythm—listen,” and I sang the third line of the song. Then I said, “We’ll end with the line we started with,” and sang it.
Now we had the chorus and I invited her to sing with me the four lines: I’m never really alone; I’m never really alone. There’s always somebody here, and I’m never really alone.”
We wrote a verse together and I asked her to tell me if the line I wrote was true. I sang, “Sometimes I feel really lonely.” And then I paused for a second and then went on with, “Sometimes I feel really left.” At that point Agnes reached for my arm and said, “That’s it—that’s how I feel.” I smiled and nodded and continued singing, “Sometimes I feel so very sad—then I remember, I remember,” and we were back to the chorus again. Agnes and I sang that song together for a number of years. It became our song of connection.
(Part 2 of this story continues tomorrow. Agnes’ name has been changed.)
Settling Into the Quiet
316. Settling Into the Quiet
As a young child I had many ear infections, and it felt as though each time I had an infection it got bad enough that I would have to have ears lanced and the infection drained out. (This was a childhood prior to penicillin.) The repeated lancing resulted in a great deal of scar tissue and ultimately in a severe hearing loss.
I have gotten two hearing aids and they are doing the very best job they can. When I am in a place like my local church, I use their hearing assist and it enables me to hear quite well, except for those times that people don’t use the microphone.
But sometimes, no matter how hard I try, and no matter what systems I work it out to use, sometimes I just can’t hear. I have come to know that it’s o.k.—that quiet is a peaceful, wonderful thing.
People with good hearing are often trapped by sound and have to wait out the screaming child in a restaurant or in a line at the bank. I just remove one hearing aid and the screaming ceases. And I settle in, to the quiet.
Three Meals
315. Three Meals
I am fortunate to be able to eat three meals a day, and I am very aware that many people in the world don’t have the food to be able to do that. I also have snacks I can eat and as I eat snacks in the afternoon and evening, the numbers on the scale increase.
Then I get tough with myself and it works for a while, and the numbers on the scale decrease again (although with less speed than the increasing phenomena). I know for a fact that often I’m putting something off, when I suddenly feel that it would be good to have a caramel or a very small bowl of corn chips.
So I was intrigued when reading the book, Lit from Within, by Victoria Moran. She tells of her yoga teacher suggesting that she limit herself to three meals a day. She asked “Nothing in between?” and the yoga teacher said, “Living in between.”
Ah—there’s an answer.
Good for the Now
314. Good for the Now
I was working as a secretary when I heard that a nursing home thirty minutes from me was looking for a piano player. I interviewed. They hired me. They had a white activity room which doubled as a place for residents to eat for lunch and dinner. But it was in that room that I was expected to play the piano.
I played—for parties, and for sing-a-longs. And then it seemed there needed to be more. So I took my guitar and started a Wandering Minstrel program, where I walked throughout the nursing home, visiting people in their rooms or in the halls.
My program grew to establishing small groups of persons with Alzheimers, with ministering to people who were confined to bed or to their room, to working with families who were keeping vigil with their family member who appeared to be dying.
I started attending New York University to get a masters in music therapy, and the program in the nursing home deepened even more. I wrote my thesis on this work and titled it: “Nursing Home Residents—Holding On and Letting Go with Music.”
I worked at that home for eleven years, I wrote reports, told stories to the owner of the home about my musical contacts, shared feedback from New York University about the music therapy program I had set up.
When I left they ran an ad in the newspaper for the job. It read: Needed: piano player.
At first my reaction was, “They didn’t get it—they didn’t recognize what I had done or they would have advertised for a music therapist.” But I was very clear to myself that the work I had done in the eleven years was valuable in itself. It was positive for many residents and their families. It was good for the Now.
Hospital Visiting
313. Hospital Visiting
When I was working as a music therapist, some of us went to an inservice at the local hospital, Good Samaritan Hospital. It was given by the Catholic priest. I’m sure he said more than I remember—but on the other hand I have always remembered two things.
1. No matter how short a visit you’re making, sit down. It says “I am here.” It says “You are important.”
2. Remember—the real sacrament is touch.
It actually applies to much more than visiting in a hospital.
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Mama and Me
