"Bill Miller"

 

         During the early years of my marriage, going out to eat happened every three or four months when my parents came to town for a visit. Now, my parents insisted that they came to San Antonio to see us, but they always made a run to the commissary for non-perishable groceries, and they always came back to our house with an entire Bill Miller Family Meal Deal. That meant tender brisket or juicy sausage coupled with potato salad and tart vinegar coleslaw. We piled our plates high with their special pickle and onion mixture, pinto beans, and warm brown bread. The sweetest tea on earth comes from this restaurant, and my parents would bring it home in buckets. One lemon meringue pie added to the tradition.

         After my father died, Mom moved to San Antonio. She shifted from wanting Bill Miller’s once every few months to wanting it every week. She started a new tradition. On Sundays she would come over to our house to use our washer and dryer and insisted on providing our meal for the day. Occasionally, she’d yearn for an Arby’s sandwich, but most of the time she wanted her brisket and slaw.

         Today, Paul wanted a break from his music studio and suggested making a Bill Miller’s run. Mom can no longer eat the sausage and brisket. She’s shifted to their chop—a delightful mixture of meat and bar-be-q sauce that’s absolutely perfect for her chewing and swallowing capabilities. We discovered that adding it to a baked potato makes it even more filling for her. Our tradition shifts, as it should, to embrace the new realities of our family life.
   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Visits With My Brother”

         Once a month, my brother toils through the after work Houston traffic to make the drive to San Antonio. His little red car pulls into the front of our house a little before 9 PM, and he lopes into the front door with a broad smile. He ignores Koi’s yapping as he heads straight for the spare bedroom to deposit his bag. My mother, in anticipation of a visit from Charles, usually fights to stay awake on the nights of his arrival. They’ll exchange a few words, a hug and kiss, and then she’ll ask one of us to take her to bed.

         Mom musters extra energy for Charles’s weekend visits. She’ll pick a favorite restaurant for an early lunch and offer to pick up the tab for all of us! She’ll sit on the couch with my brother, watching the movies or shows he prefers. She’ll haltingly chat about her health and ask him about his life. A huge part of the time, though, they sit in comfortable silence.         

         Happiness oozes from my brother. He lives a simple life. He enjoys the little things that come his way and never wastes time bemoaning life’s travails. He hates asking others for help, yet he is the first one to offer assistance if he can.

For now, I treasure the weekend visits with my brother. His presence means we get time. Today, after my mother treats everyone to lunch, David and I will head out to trim hedges and clear out the front garden bed, chores we could do individually during the weekends when my brother doesn’t visit, but which we enjoy doing together when we can.    

         With Huntington’s Disease, each of us have a 50% chance of inheriting the disease. My mother’s late onset means that although we may be symptom free at this time, we could begin expressing the early symptoms soon. I try to prepare myself for the fact that all three of us could end up dealing with HD again, but I dread the thought of Charles being affected. I guess because he’s my “little brother” I long to protect him from this hardship. He’s single and doesn’t have a high income. If HD impacts his life within the next few years, it will wreck the balance of his world.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman