He Can Hear Me Now!

The birds twitter a conversation from a tree two houses down.  Soft breezes brush nearby foliage with a swishing sound.   Simultaneously hundreds of raindrops begin to pelt the aluminum siding with a familiar tap, tap, tap.  These are sounds I take for granted.

Sidekick and husband, Ed, now hears these sounds too. I listen to him outside laughing in delight. For the first time in many years he hears the birds and long forgotten sounds.

Technology for hearing loss has come a long way since man first sought a way to amplify hearing.  Long before the hearing trumpet, medieval author Giovanni Battista Porta wrote about carved hearing aids shaped of the ears belonging to animals with superior hearing. Obviously, that fad didn’t last.

By the early 1700’s the hearing trumpet was carved from wood, animal horns, shells and later fashioned with metals.  Wide at the receiving end and narrow at the other to fit near the ear, the hearing device directly amplified the sound to the ear.   Ludwig Van Beethoven was said to have used such a device.

It was during this time that bone conduction; the act of transmitting sound waves through the skull to the brain was discovered. Fanlike devices were placed behind the ear to capture the sound waves and transmit them to the brain for processing.  

If you haven’t already guessed, I’ve spent a lot of time reading literature at the audiologist’s office while sidekick was tested.   I’ve learned a lot about hearing loss.  Ed is like many who experience a slow decline in hearing.  

At first he missed a few words of a conversation.  It was harder and harder for him to distinguish vowels and soft sounds.  Over time background noise made hearing an even bigger challenge.  It was this winter that I noticed that my gregarious, outgoing sidekick was hanging closer and closer to the boat.   He didn’t want to attend beach functions because he hard a hard time understanding conversation in groups of people.  One on one and face to face was manageable, but he still might ask one to repeat something. 

Several times I walked up behind him and watched him jump as I startled him.  All I said was, “You need to see the ear doctor when we get back to the States.”  After originally agreeing to do that four years ago, Ed was finally ready.

I didn’t have to remind him or even find a doctor.   He did that himself.   He was extremely disappointed with the discourteous fast food service approach of the first practice and refused to go back after the audiologist stopped several times to take personal cell phone calls during the testing procedure.

He made a formal complaint to the practice, the referring physician, and the insurance company before finding a second audiologist nearby.  From there it was easy, all the way.  Stacy the audiologist was patient.  She explained what was happening and why Ed couldn’t hear in specific situations. 

It was after she fitted what looked like a neck crook with a round box that rested under Ed’s beard and placed small hearing aids in his ears that he fell in love.  The joy on his face as he conversed with full hearing made me grin.

It was when he turned his head to the ping of a new email message on her computer that brought a tear to my eye.  Ed could now hear sounds that he had been missing.  He heard the creak of the chair as Stacy moved backward.   

Do I get to wear this all the time he asked in earnest?   He really thought he would get the neck crook medallion.   Laughing ,Stacy explained that he would not need a device that large.  “You will receive a small hearing aid in a week,” she said.

We are fortunate that our insurance company pays once every three years for one hearing aid.  That meant we would have to pay the balance for a second one.  The devices are expensive and fragile.  Ed decided that he would go with both.

The hearing aides come with a three-year warranty against loss or breakage.  You can lose or break each one once in a period of three years.   They also come with a year’s supply of batteries that last up to 10 days. 

Hearing aids do need adjusting from time to time and must be kept clean.  Ed’s new devices are barely visible.  You have to look hard under all that hair to find them.  They are small and fit behind the top of his ear with a small wire connected to an ear bud that fits snugly inside.

Today’s hearing aids are a marvel of technology. Ed’s aids can adapt o changing sounds as he moves through the day.  It accounts for the wind blowing while driving with the windows open. It adjusts to reduce noise levels and can even act as a Bluetooth device.

It is amazing that something so small can make such a huge difference.  Hearing that I took for granted I now share with my husband.  On Imagine, he will hear the rain on the cabin top and the waves splashing the hull. 

This summer in Delaware he still won’t hear the neighbors dogs that wake me, or the train that whistles through Newark in the wee hours of the morning.  That’s because he takes them out at night.

I’ve been warned to watch what I say when his back is turned, he can hear me now…  at least when he wants to.   The other day I was helping him with some information I thought he needed to know.   He didn’t agree.  Grinning, he clicked the little volume button behind his ear and said, “Look Sharron, I can turn you off.”  Thanks Ed!

Strawberry Remembering

It’s funny how an unexpected experience quickly unlocks childhood memories that had been filed away gathering cobwebs in the recesses of the brain.   A patch of strawberries, surrounded by small tomato and pepper plants took me for a walk down memory lane.

Purple martins chirped nosily, flying in and out of the birdhouses centered in the garden.  Below, I searched beneath the deep green saw-toothed clusters of three leaves where the best berries hide.  Dad picked berries on the opposite side of the row.

Nearly 40 years have passed since I last picked strawberries with my dad in his Sharptown garden.  An avalanche of memories tumble forth making me laugh and also wonder when childhood had slipped away. 

As I step back in time, I’m no longer alone with Dad in the garden.  My sisters and brothers are there as well.  We pick opposite of one another, arguing, encouraging and reminding each other to “pick it clean.”  I won’t mention names, but there was a sibling who only wanted to pick the big berries.

After the rows of berries were picked clean the Sparks kids and cousins admired the dozens of neatly packed red berries in the brown woodchip quart boxes.  We carefully carried the fragile berries across the freshly tilled soil towards the house.  Often we sported red fingers. Sometimes stains ran down our chins where the juicy berries overflowed.

Often the berries were sold in front of the house.  Other times dad loaded the back of his old beat-up GMC truck and we went door to door selling the fresh picked fruit.  That’s not something one could do today without a license. 

Almost five decades ago, when I was 10, the berries sold for $.75 to $1.00 a quart.  One could pick a quart at different farms for $.25.  The Sparks family used the strawberry proceeds for vacation.

We didn’t just sell the berries.  There was still canning and freezing ahead. Berries were capped, sliced and stored in the freezer for wintertime treats.  More berries were  again capped, sliced and mashed to make strawberry jam. 

Because I was quick, and because I was the oldest, I usually was the de-capper. I’d insert the knife blade just under the star like cap and pop up, over and over, thousands and thousands of times, until the berries floating in the cleansing water disappeared.

Capped berries went into the bowl where the slicer began to work.  Usually my cousin (aunt) Judy Price would be slicing the berries next to me.  After she filled a bowl with quartered and sliced berries, the bag filler began the task of filling  quart bags with the aromatic bright red fruit.

The best part about strawberry season was the strawberry shortcake.  Dad would slightly mush the berries and add some sugar while Mom baked up large pans of golden brown shortcake.  Our grandfather, John Sparks, lived with us.  He loved his strawberries.  That meant that Mom was making shortcake for twelve.

This week I picked 20 quarts of strawberries from Dad’s garden while he was away.  Husband, Ed, who does better with boating things, picked the first berries of his lifetime.  No, he didn’t pick them clean.  He went for the big berries, just like a sibling of mine.

I went behind him cleaning up the row. 

I washed, capped, sliced and froze the berries later that afternoon. The kitchen smelled heavenly.  I reminisced about the good times I had with the family during those childhood years. 

Judy is on my mind and in my thoughts as she watches her husband’s declining health. While I am far away, hospice workers offer support and comfort.  I wonder if she might smell the strawberries? I think of her and imagine that she does.

Dad is getting a little more stooped and a little grayer each year.  Mom’s challenges have taken away her ability to drive, or cook, and sometimes to remember the names of her children and grandchildren. 

Heck, I’m getting grayer each year. I’m guessing that I must have been more limber (imagine that) in my youth.  I don’t remember the hamstrings talking to me the following day.  Oh yeah, muscles and ligaments can be quite loud.

While the hamstrings bark, I search through recipes for strawberry jalapeño jam.  Last year I made blackberry jalapeño jam that was a hit with fellow boaters.   Small half pint jars make a nice gift for someone who has done something nice.  It also makes a great appetizer when spread over a block of cream cheese and served with crackers.

Next winter while we cruise, I will enjoy strawberry memories as we share drinks and companionship with fellow boaters.  Strawberry memories have sweetened the strawberries even more this season. 

In my opinion, the only berries as good as the ones in Dad’s garden are the ones farm grown on Quaker Neck Road.  Many years ago, the Battiato boy’s began selling strawberries as a way to earn extra cash.  Frank has strawberry memories of his own that maybe one day he will share with his children, my grandchildren.

Dr. William Butler a 17^th century English writer once wrote about the strawberry, “Doubtless God could have made a better berry, but doubtless God never did.”  I’ll bet he had strawberry memories too.

 Native American Indians were already eating strawberries when the colonists appeared on their shores.  They crushed the berries and mixed it into cornmeal.  Colonists came up with their own versions, which were probably the origins of strawberry shortcake.

Not only does the strawberry convey memories, it is a very special fruit.  It is a member of the rose family.  It is also the only fruit with the seeds on the outside.  If you don’t have some strawberry memories of your own, maybe it is time to start.  Those memories will last the rest of your life.