Dealing with Aging Parents - The relationship is worth more than making sense

Martin Brossman II and Julia McLean Brossman - My Parents

Last weekend when I was home to visit my Father and Mother who have 24hr in-home care I was reminded of what my good friend T. Ho Haryadi said about relating being more important than making sense when dealing with people that have a decline in mental abilities.

I used to try to point out to my parents what was "right" as their mind started slipping and often lead to them just feeling criticized or my father getting emotionally upset. My father has become more emotionally vulnerable and my mother more feisty with aging.

I was sitting next to my Dad watching an action movie (he still likes them) and from his recliner chair he looked at me and asked how his parents were doing. I just answered "fine" (they died years ago). Then he asked if they were still in Allentown PA and I said they moved to Womelsdorf PA and were doing well (where they were buried but that was not said as well). He smiled and looked back at the TV.

After the show he was ready to go to sleep and I talked to the caregiver a bit then went upstairs myself.  At the top of the steps my Mom scared me half to death. She was hiding behind the banister at the top of the steps and said, "Ssh, they don't know I am still up". I just replied, in a soft voice, "I understand, I will help you back". I took her arm under mine and lead her back to her bed where she went to sleep. I think she thought she was 12 years old listening in on her parents conversation.  My friend John Z. pointed out how he had a similar situation with his grandmother and how he realized that in that moment the 90+ year old women got to be  young again.

What a gift that I discovered that relating is more important than making sense, so I could be with them in their aging process. I need to tell you I still have a lot of stress with the responsibility of taking care of them but these are precious moments that should not be missed.

Special thanks to my good friend Thomas Golden for encouraging me to write this both for others and so I remember it. He is the author of the must read book on men and grief: "Swallowed by a Snake: The Gift of the Masculine Side of Healing"
http://www.amazon.com/Swallowed-Snake-Gift-Masculine-Healing/dp/0965464911/



- Martin Brossman

Author of the book - Finding Our Fire: Enhancing men's connection to heart, passion and strength.

My dad did not have a workbench at home.

My dad did not have a workbench at home. He was a mechanic for pumps and air compressors of all sizes. I should tell you that my dad dressed nicely in
casual cloths to go to work. When he arrived he changed into dark green or dark blue clothes. I never saw him in his work clothes until I graduated from high school, and got a summer job working in the same shop. On my first day at work he proudly took me to his work bench and tool chest. His tool chest had been hand made for him by his friends in the carpenter shop. He pulled his key ring
of 48 keys from a belt clip and unlocked his tool chest. I do not think he was remembering the picture he had thumb tacked inside the lid, but as the lid opened, there I saw his picture of me at age 2 dressed in all white clothes. I had no idea that he kept my picture there. I pointed to it, and he said, "I keep that picture there so that every day I will remember why I come to work."
- A A

My dad's workbench came with the house we lived in

My dad's workbench came with the house we lived in, which was built in the late 1800s. The workbench is in the basement, it is long with lots of drawers, solid legs, and a very sturdy top. The top has lots of marks, gouges, and nails embedded in it. It has a pegboard in the back where
many tools hang, and a few things hang from the rafters above. He also had lots of metal shelves to hold things, a special tool box with electrical items, and an old board mounted on the wall with holes drilled in it to hold screwdrivers. My dad was also a collector of nails and screws, he has boxes of all sizes and types that he collected over the years. There's a calendar on the wall from the 30s that were there when bought the house. In his later years he found a label maker at a yard sale, and labeled everything.

I was the oldest of 5, and 4 of us were boys. We were always using my dad's tools, and of course we left them on the bench every time instead of putting them back. Every once in a while my dad would get really irritated, and spend a Saturday morning cleaning up his tools and putting
everything away. It was an exercise in futility, we always made it messy again with our own "projects". When he needed to do work, he would make it a point to clean up the bench before starting so he could find things he needed without getting frustrated. It wasn't until all of us had grown and moved out that I realized it was us that made the mess, and not my dad. He kept it neat all the time once us boys no longer borrowed his tools.

Since my dad died, I have been slowly claiming some tools for myself, as have my brothers. My mother only needs a few things for repairs, there will be no more big projects. One of the tools I took was an old hand drill, which sounds like the one Ken described as S shaped. When I recently did some work that required a large diameter hole, it was the only tool I could use to do the job. It made me feel close to my dad, like I was helping him with another of his projects around the house.

Some of his tools are from another time, but they still do the job and have a lot of memories attached to them. My own workbench is much like my dad's, but smaller with only one drawer.
It came with my house which was built in the mid 1800s. It's messy, my own kids do to me what we did to my dad. It makes me happy that some of the tools they borrow to do their stuff are the same ones I borrowed from my dad. The legacy continues.
Rick

As a young child I was told that my father was a "carpenter"

As a young child I was told that my father was a "carpenter", and in the somewhat religious home my Mom was trying to create, I remember thinking "like Jesus," so that sat very nicely. In reality he was a building contractor. When he died a few weeks before he would have turned 30, he was involved in a large building project out of town, a few hundred miles away, on the other side of the province. Some considerable time later--at least 5 years, as I remember that my Mother had remarried, my mother was still sorting out my father's estate, and she learned that she was paying for storage for some of his possessions related to his business. She arranged for these things to be shipped to our house, and the items that arrived included some fairly good electrical tools--a planer is the only one that I remember. I also remember a really old fashioned electric calculator, and a surveyers telescope that we would take on holidays to the beach--for spying on people on the beach! My very handy stepfather put the tools to good use.

My stepfather tended to keep his tools in a bench made of drawers from an old dresser, recycled into a much sturdier case that he made for them, in the garage--but I was not very interested. I have never been, and am not very handy. Fast-forward about 35 years--my brother built a home for his family, including a nice workshop room in the basement. Somehow, my Mom decided that he should have those old tools, and so they were shipped back across the province again. At the time I was living out of the province, on the west coast, and had always lived in apartments, so I did not pay much attention. However, the first Christmas after I left the coast and had moved back, I found a very sturdy rectangular box under the tree for me, from my brother. It turned out that he had made a tool box for me, sized nicely to fit on the floor of a standard clothes closet. He explained that he had made it using my fathers old tools. It holds most of my modest collection of tools. My brother still had not turned two when our father died, and has no memory of him, but I thought that this was a very thoughtful gift. The tool box fits nicely on the floor of the coat closet in my apartment, and it feels like something that I have had for a long time.
> Bram

My father's workbench was a heavy old dresser in a corner of the garage.

My father's workbench was a heavy old dresser in a corner of the garage. He kept the top surface tidy and the drawers stocked with tools that interested me. Some of them were very old, handed down to him from his dad. The strangest thing was a big hand drill with a wooden handle. It was an "S" shaped tool and took a little finesse to work effectively.

On top of the workbench was a table saw that I wasn't allowed to use and behind that a pegboard which held screwdrivers, paint scrapers, every kind of hammer, hose clamps, awls, plumbing snakes, and wrenches. Finally, a small chest of drawers held nuts and bolts and screws and mollies.

Above the pegboard dad screwed bottle caps into the underside of a pine shelf. Then the jars which were filled with nails were screwed into the caps. Dad was a clever and organized man. He was much better at keeping a workshop than I am. I have a board placed on top of a pile of bald tires in the basement. On top of that I gingerly balance a stack of cookie tins and shoe boxes which hold my own assortment of tools.

Dad built some very cool things for us in his workshop. My favorite was a pine soapbox racer with ball bearing wheels and a working steering wheel. Our house was on a steep hill so we had a handy place to drive it. He also built a tree house for me in the woods behind the house. It was high off the ground and made a great fort for when all the kids in the neighborhood got together to play army guys. One day we pretended we were jungle explorers and the lot of us went
running through the woods slashing skunk cabbage with our wooden machetes. We accidentally slashed a hornets nest and went screaming out of the woods right quick, swatting at our stings and pulling off our clothes, jumping into the cool pool for relief and safety.

Dad built a rustic mantle for the fireplace. He used special brick mollies to secure the angle supports into the wall. Then he beat the mantle with a heavy length of chain links to distress it. He sang his favorite song, "Old Shep," while he wailed on that length of oak with a cigarette between his teeth.

When dad was at work I used his workbench liberally. Me and my friends took the wheels off of the soapbox racer and attached them to dad's 40 foot aluminum ladder to make a dragster. Halfway down the hill the axles shifted and the ladder went sideways and we were nearly run over by Mr. Santuccio and his 1965 sky blue Chevy Impala. I left dad's told out in the grass and found them wiuth the lawnmover the next weekend. I was punished for that but not severely.

Now when I go to visit my mom I like to go out to the garage and tidy things up if they need it. The old drill is still there with it's neat box of drill bits.

Dad knew how to do things right.

Ken (thanks Ken for letting me post this story and for contributing it).

Man-Making Blog re-printed the stroy. Check out the blog.

Man-Making Blog re-printed the story. Check out the blog.
http://journeytomanhood.blogspot.com/2009/06/my-fathers-workbench.html

A workbench is a place where men connect with one another.

A workbench is a place where men connect with one another. Women talk to each other across a table, face to face. But men talk and connect side by side and shoulder to shoulder and this is often over a workbench.

Most of the significant times a dear friend and I had together, times we’d open our hearts to each other, was while we were in his garage working on a car together or hanging over a workbench.

The same was true of my dad. He was a heating and A/C contractor and he had his own sheetmetal shop. Many hours of meaningful exhanges took place over his workbench. I remember using his tools and working at that same bench after he died. It was an unusual, almost sacred experience. I felt like he was watching me while I worked and ran the shop he used to work in, like there was still some kind of exchange going on.

Maybe a workbench is more than just a workbench. Maybe it’s a sacred space, a holy altar. It’s a place where we create, imagine, dream, meditate, and many times it’s a place where an sacred exchange with other men's lives takes place.

Rob - http://inside919.ning.com/profile/RobHarris

To see the origional article "My Father's Workbench": http://bit.ly/11vWYN

I got my love for wood and working with my hands from my grandfather.

Comment about the original story ( http://bit.ly/11vWYN ):

I got my love for wood and working with my hands from my grandfather. His shop was chock full of amazement! I could watch my grandfather work for hours on a project and never get bored.So, much so, that the moment I had a garage, I build a workbench and filled it with memories of my grandfather. To this day, I can't walk into my garage and start working with my router, drill press or even pick up a piece of sandpaper without thinking of him.Thanks for sharing, Martin!!

http://inside919.ning.com/profile/DeidreHughey

Assorted comments about the "My Fathers Workbench" story

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Assorted comments:

"My husband has such a bench, and he and my son have spent untold hours using it and the myriad of tools/nuts/bolts stashed away rebuilding or fixing cars.

My son, in his early 20's now does work on his own with verbal guidance from all that he has learned over the years. He's as at home with all those tools as his father, as comfortable tearing an engine out of a car and fixing it and then replacing it as his Dad.

It was a marvelous thing to observe over the years and a testament to the bonding they had in that garage, over that bench. Hours of watching, listening, asking and learning have taken root and now bloom in my son." - Nancy

Another:
"My Dad and my Grandpa had such a workbench. It was more or less the social center for visitors. I used to love to sit outside the open door of the toolshed and listen to the mysteries of Life as explained by Dad to whoever might drop in for a spell."

Another post:
"I loved your piece about the work bench. I spend my days like the ones you described with your parents. My birthday is coming up. My calendar is dotted with appointments for both my parents. I remember staying up helping my mom can food and cook for family dinner. I can’t see myself without a kitchen with lots of cabinet space. My tools are having the right things to cook with. My roommate was happy to clean in return for me cooking. I was also the woman who could fix her car. My brother came along later. I now live 3 miles from my parents. I am so lucky to have had that solid rock. I so understand what you are saying. "

My Dad died in February, and I wrote a poem about his simple "artifacts"

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Thanks, Martin, for your Workbench memories. My Dad died in February, and I wrote a poem about his simple "artifacts" that so much sum him up, for those who knew and loved him. I love the picture you added. My Dad had, in their old house, what he called his "cubbyhole," which was a Noah's ark in itself of artifacts, tools, treasures untold. My sister-in-law and I cleaned it out before my parents moved and it brought back, and up, so many memories and questions and smiles. I'll never forget Dad sitting in the living room chair smiling at each question we asked.

And happy birthday! What a wonderful way to spend it (though maybe dr's appts aren't top of the list!), with your parents. - Margaret Martin

I was reaching 40 & I realized I didn't have a "workbench"

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I just have to add that a few years ago (just around the time I was reaching 40) I realized I didn't have a "workbench" and so I created a "studio" that I putter around in making 'art'(?) Well, I get some therapeutic value out of it in any case. As a Mum of three it felt pretty good to reclaim some space in the house for my self - even if the other end (and sometimes 'my' end) of the bonus room was full of toys. When the kids were younger, 'my space' was my saving grace. I think we're talking about sacred spaces and I hope everyone takes the time to create one for them selves and then takes the time to use it. Congratulations! Enjoy your sacred space. Peace, Suzanne - http://inside919.ning.com/profile/SuzanneBallantyne

I was fortunate to have been brought up by a handyman Dad.

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Well Done, Well Said , SO True. I was fortunate to have been brought up by a handyman Dad. As the first Son, I was his first protege. Still today when I vist, we usually end up in front of his workbench talking about some project.. Happy Birthday Martin

Thomas R Schaffer

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My dad helped my brownie troop earn our woodworking badge. We made wooden spoons. He made all sorts of Danish modern furniture, lamps and the smell of wood shavings takes me back to those slower, warm times of childhood. When he died I got a lot of his tools which meant so much to me.

One Christmas as he had the saw running, a group of carolers were almost drowned out by the noise. We went running downstairs to say, "daddy, turn off the saw, we have carolers!"

What happened to those times? They seem to be replaced with our fast moving, hightech world. Will my grandchildren feel warm and cuddly as they reminisce about game boys, ninetendos and iPhones int he same way? Only time will tell.

Love this one, Martin! - Leslie Flowters
http://inside919.ning.com/profile/LeslieFlowers

My Dad had a lot of tools, they mean so much me

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OK, now that I have wiped all the tears from my face, I have to tell you Martin, how special this was to read. You don't have to be a man to appreciate it. My father didn't have a work bench. Now I realize, he probably wished he did. But he did have lots of tools and I ended up with them after he died. I can't say I use them much, but they bring back so many memories for me of when he did, that just having them means so much to me. I'll use his old drill, now probably 45 years old, on occasion, and remember when my mother found out I was using it. "Be careful not to drill a hole in your hand!", she would warn me. But when I use it, I can feel the energy of my dad, and I know he is there protecting me from harm.

Thank you for so beautifully sharing your memories with us. They are a perfect trigger to wake up the memories within all of us. Thank you for triggering mine. (wiping more tears.)

Happy Birthday Martin! Welcome to the 50 something group. (I joined in January.) The way I see it, I spent my first 50 years trying to figure out who I am, and who I want to be. The next 50 will be living it in abundance. Wishing you much abundance in your next 50 years!
- Carole Hoffman
http://inside919.ning.com/profile/CaroleHoffman

My husband has a workbench where he let's our daughter help sometimes

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Wow Martin, this is great. Thanks for sharing it with us.

Your mention of lamps that need rewiring remind me of a lamp on my desk that wouldn't work. "Mom wait til Dad gets home" was my response as Mom tried to rewire it. After some sparks and a small explosion in the kitchen, the lamp made its way to Dad's workbench. He fixed it when he got home & my Mom didn't attempt any more wiring projects.

I'm glad my husband has a workbench where he let's our daughter help sometimes. It is collecting pink paint from her pine box derby car, glue from repairing broken toy horse legs, oil and grease stains from repairs to friends cars, and memories of how Dads are good at fixing stuff. I think I'll go take some pictures to add to the family scrapbook.

Thanks so much for such a great perspective on an everyday workbench. It brought back great memories.
- Wendy Tefft

http://inside919.ning.com/profile/WendyTefft

My Father’s Workbench - Share your story

On my 50th birthday in April, I spent the day taking both my parents to two doctor appointments, an exhausting time for them and me. At the end of the day, I went into the basement of their home, the Washington, D.C. house where I grew up, to find a quiet moment. Finding myself standing in front of Dad’s workbench. I got out my cell phone and took a picture.

Later when I looked at that photo, I knew why I had choked up a few weeks before when I stood in my just-built garage in Raleigh, when I was deciding where my new workbench would go. Looking at Dad’s old bench made me realize just how deeply I have always wanted a place to have a home-made workbench like his, one where I could work on household repairs and make things. Most of all I wanted a big sturdy bench where I could properly mount my red vice that I have carried with me from three places I have lived.

I realized, too, that creating my own workbench is connecting me back to the time as a kid when I worked with my father at his workbench. It was where Dad always started house jobs from, and where we ended house jobs by putting away the tools. It was part of connecting with my Dad, who worked a lot but still had time for us to do things. It was not the cleanest workbench and that is part of what made it great. The bench was a piece of heavy plywood that he cut and laid across the top of two unfinished dressers that he found on sale. It could hold all our tools on the pegboard wall or in the dresser drawers. My favorite drawer was the one with the soldering iron and electrical stuff in it.

That bench had history. Each cut in the surface, outline of spray paint, glob of epoxy that had stuck to the paper and the bench, and the drill hole that went too far through the wood, were all important. It was the evidence that represented my father and I working with our hands to figure something out, reminding me how he would share when he did not have it all worked out, but would in time. We did minor plumbing that sometimes lead to major plumbing, requiring a plumber to finish the job. We did simple wiring and electrical projects, like rewiring a lamp on the bench or gluing a broken cup after mixing the gray two-part epoxy on the workbench.

It was on that bench where I cut out the aluminum holes for the knobs, meter and connector of my lie detector science project-- modeled after one in Popular Science Magazine--that won first place. My father let me do as much of it as possible, right down to misspelling the word Calibration on the front. All this hands-on experience made me a hero in college because I had a small tool chest (which was a portable workbench to me) and could fix things that the other guys in the dorm could not.

From the “men’s work” that I have been involved in, to my work with The Triangle Men’s Center as their Vice President, I have learned a lot in the past decade or so about the mental wounds that can occur in men’s lives due to an absent or abusive father. I have met so many men who never had this element in their life, who never had a Dad who included them in house jobs, or experienced a family workbench that held the tools they used together. And I have learned that often men who do receive from their father the importance of having a work space (or their own space) will later give it up to please their family or someone else.

I believe these spaces are part of us. They are more important than many of us realize. The guys who give up their own space, who don’t create their workbench area , may not realize the cost until much later in life. Maybe you have a memory of a workbench. Maybe you need to go futz with something on your workbench. Or maybe you need to create a space for a workbench. Think about it.

Even though my father is on dialysis and much weaker now, I know he will be glad to see a picture of the workbench I am going to build in my garage. It will be ready to photograph when I attach the red vice that mounts with 4 big bolts on its right-hand corner. Over time, it will collect its own holes and nicks from the projects I imagine happening on it. I’ll have to remember to take a picture years from now.

Thanks Dad, for introducing me to the workbench. You weren’t just teaching me handyman skills, you were modeling patience and confidence, and how to carve out a small space for peaceful enjoyment . I hope to keep sharing this valuable message with other men who might be missing the importance of a workbench in their life.

See the entire blog: http://myfathersworkbench.blogspot.com/