Lisa's Archives: Carousel Riders Award-Wining Story By Lisa Loucks-Christenson

Carousel Riders - Award-Winning Story by Lisa Loucks-Christenson

CAROUSEL RIDERS
Award-Winning Short Story
By LISA LOUCKS CHRISTENSON

Reprinted January 23, 2024 in the Rochester Sun Times News with permission.

“The fire happened so fast, I didn’t know what to do. The firefighters kicked in the door when I didn’t answer it. I didn’t know why they were here.” Dorothy was a little shrill in defense of her actions.
“Mom, it’s ok.” Gail hugged her mom. “I’m glad you’re not hurt. You did the right thing; you remembered to dial 911.”
“I feel stupid. I don’t know how I did it.”
“Mom, I’ve burned plastic bowls on the stove, too. Don’t feel bad.” Gail quickly changed the subject. “Did you see the paper today? They opened the carousel.”
“Oh?”
“The one we went to last fall, remember? Mom, I want to take you there tomorrow.”
Gail drove home with her mother safely strapped in the front seat.
“Where are we going?”
“I thought you’d like to stay over tonight.”
“Can we play cards?”
“It’s your choice, Mom.”
“I’m hungry. Do you have something good to eat?” she asked.
When they arrived, Gail made up a plate of leftovers.
“What’s this for? I already had supper.”
Without hesitation Gail answered, “Oh, I thought we’d have a snack before bed.”
“I’m not hungry, Gail,” she slurred as drool ran down each side of her mouth.
They played a couple of games of rummy. However, it was when Gail asked, “One more game before bed?”

Dorothy replied, “I don’t know how to play rummy.”

Gail recalled the doctor’s words: “Repeating, repeating, and repeating will challenge even the most patient soul. Some children have successfully cared for a parent with Alzheimer’s. You’ll have to stay one step ahead of the pain. Watching her frustration when she forgets where she put her purse, watching her lose her memories, her ability to eat or her bodily functions isn’t for the weak.”
“I won’t put her in a home!”
“Gail, think about everything we’ve talked about. Like a child, she’ll require constant care. Are you up for that challenge?”
“I love my mother. I won’t let her go through this alone; you know how scared she gets.”
“It takes more than courage to care for your loved one. I want you to get a book. It’s called The Complete Guide to Alzheimer’s. The book gives suggestions on how to deal with your mom hiding keys and checks, and her wandering. It will provide you with many answers as you progress with each step of the disease.
“When she asks you, ‘Where’s my daughter?’ Don’t get upset.” He handed her the slip of paper with the name of the book. “Answer her by saying, ‘She’s coming over for dinner.’”
“Ok.”
“Learn to accept blame when something isn’t your fault. Give her a brief explanation. Patience comes with trust, and forgiveness strengthens your faith by miles.”
Gail wrote his suggestions down in her daily calendar, but she knew it was really her record of the last days. She knew it was going to be a long road ahead, and because the disease was in the beginning stages, she met each day apprehensively. Sometimes, she wondered if the emptiness she endured would lessen if her mother was gone. The never knowing what to expect unnerved her most.

Today, would her mother adorn her with old stories and her wit, or would she walk into her mother’s room and find a total stranger wearing her mother’s face?
The doctor finished with, “Gail, you’ll help keep her mind active by cutting out coupons, sharing memories, or singing songs. You might try giving her a makeover or make gifts to give away, or you might want to try making a memory book together.”

Gail woke up early and went to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. When she opened the door to let the dog out, she heard someone whimpering like a small child.
Orange, yellow, and red leaves mixed crackled under each tiny step as she followed the cries. She realized it was her mother, and as she ran to her, she called out, “Mom, what’s wrong?”
Her mother was already cold and shivering, sitting under the apple tree clutching a handful of leaves. She wouldn’t look up; instead she pouted and shook her head. “Nothing.”
“Is it Dad? I miss him, too.”
“He didn’t pick me up.”
“Mom, who didn’t pick you up?”
“My father!” she yelled. “I waited under the tree after school like he told me, but he didn’t come.”
Dorothy threw the leaves to the ground and shouted, “Now I’m going to miss my Halloween Party!”
“Don’t get upset; he’s just running late. Come on, get ready. I’ll take you to your Halloween party.”
Then Dorothy lifted her head and glanced sideways. “Who’s that man? He keeps staring at me, but he won’t say anything. What does he want?”
“I don’t see him, Mom. Let’s go inside; it’s so cold out here.”

The next morning, they drove to Lark Toys in Kellogg, Minnesota. On the wall by the entrance, they laughed at their reflections in the fun-house mirrors.
“Look at me, Gail! I look like a movie star with my tall legs and trim hips.”
Further down the long corridor, toys from years past lined the glassed-fronted shelves.
“Look, Gail, there’s Howdy Doody!”
This was the mom she loved, adored, and grew up with, and it was beautiful watching her grow excited at the sight of the old toys.
An eardrum-piercing gong announced the carousel was about to start another journey. Gail bought three tokens.
“Look, mom, I bought an extra token for our memory book.”
“Which animal do you want to ride?”
“Look at all the pretty animals. Gail, where are the horses?”
”Mom, remember, this carousel doesn’t have horses, but look, there’s a unicorn, and over there, a giraffe. Do you want to ride it?”
“No. I want to ride this one.”
“The flamingo?”
“Oh, is that what it is? I thought it was a pink chicken.” She laughed.
Gail helped her mom mount the towering flamingo, then wrapped the safety strap around her thinning waist saying, “Mom, hold on to the pole.”
A rabbit with tall ears made for listening and watchful eyes stood mounted next to the flamingo. Gail strapped herself on and waved to her mom.
As the carousel picked up speed, Gail turned to see her mother’s curls dancing in the breeze. The music barely drowned out her screaming, “Wee. Wee! Whoopee!”
As the ride slowed, Gail noticed the rise upwards changed her perspective, giving her the tenacity to deal with whatever disappointment trampled her fondest memories.
When the ride ended, Dorothy called to Gail, “How did you like the rabbit?”
Gail answered, “I felt like a rabbit, hopping up and down––wrapped me up in a fur coat like his too!”

Her mom turned her head to the side, staring into her daughters’ eyes and said, “You look different.”

After the coroner left, Gail studied her parent’s bedroom one last time. Next week, the auctioneer would come and survey the contents of the home. She memorized how her mom’s quilt laid spread across her bed. She read the titles of the books sitting on her mom’s nightstand, and the way her mother’s handmade curtains were backlit by the sun as it settled down, disappearing into the last light of day and into the light mist. Gail, still in a fog herself.

She walked over to close the top drawer of the bureau. As she shoved in the silk and satin nightgowns, something glittered, sparking her attention. She lifted it out of the drawer, and her eyes welled up as she placed it in her hand, squeezing it.

Then she lifted the hand-scrawled letter from her mother that it had been resting on and read:

Dear Gail,

I picked the flamingo because you reminded me of the rabbit that stood by its side. Gail, thank you for not giving up on me. When everyone else was walked away and didn't come back, you stood by me. I’m blessed to have you for my daughter and watching over me. I used to worry about when I died, that only my shadow would remain behind, but you changed that the day you entered my life. Keep your ears perked! Know in your heart I’ll be waiting for you by the carousel for another ride. I love you, dear one.
—Mom

THE END

Copyright © 2001 Lisa Loucks Christenson. All Rights Reserved.

Author’s Note:

January 23, 2024 Update: Throughout the years, as my grandma's Alzheimer's disease developed, I felt an urgent need to discover a way to support her. I knew I could show up and visit. I knew I could talk. I could write her stories. I could illustrate her memories. Her stories, shared throughout our lifetime together, brought her back to me. It all began with Putchie's Pickles, a book that shared a time when she delighted in the accomplishment of growing a pickle in a jar.

I made a complete collection of personalized memory books for my grandmother. I made a video of myself reading it to my grandmother and recorded her reactions. By including items like snow and pumpkins, I made the stories more interactive by giving her things to touch and hold. Throughout our lives, my grandmother shared her memories with me, which inspired the illustrated stories in the Putchi Remembers books. I would tell her the stories while showing her the illustrations. Grandma battled Alzheimer’s for over 14-years. At’s. At the time of her death, she had reached the age of 99-years, 9-months, and 9-days.

There was never a time when I couldn't get through to her; we always had a bond when I referred to her as "Puchi," a Czechoslovakian name given to her by her mother, which translates to "Little One." Rest in peace, Grandma Dorothy (Putchi).

There was never a time when I couldn't get through to her; we always had a bond when I referred to her as "Putchi," a Czechoslovakian name given to her by her mother, which translates to "Little One." Rest in peace, Grandma Dorothy (Putchie).

Author Notes Fall 2001: The unfolding truths of my grandmother's battle with Alzheimer's provide the foundation for this fictionalized tale. I entered a 24-hour short story contest with a word limit and wrote this story for it. I hope to expand it one day, maybe as a gift book for others that can find joy through the bittersweet moments that come with loving someone close, living with this memory-stealing disease.

This story won an Honorable Mention in the fall 2001, Writersweekly.com, 24-hour short story writing contest.

Since then, I’ve received several letters mentioning how much this story meant. I’m posting it in hopes others may find peace.

I am incredibly grateful to Lark Toys in Kellogg, Minnesota, for allowing me to photograph their carousel for this story.

Please pass it on.

Lisa

Author’s sister writes: "Well, I just read your Carousel Riders story. Ouch. Thanks for making me cry. I liked and hated the ending, if that makes sense. I only hated it due to the truth factor. If it wasn’t about Grandma, I would have loved it." —H.

Other comments:
"The story unfolded nicely and the Alzheimer’s aspect was sensitively handled. The metaphor was really well done in the carousel scene — a gem for the reader."—Scribendi.com editor.

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