When Dementia Came Knocking: A Daughters Journey : In the Beginning

By Christine Tirman

In the beginning of my mother’s journey with dementia, I was clueless. I had very little knowledge of this disease and absolutely zero understanding. I felt a need, a want, to write about our journey, not only for my own sanity but also as a tool to help others walking the same path that we were. I wanted the reader to know about my mother and experience her incredible life during the Nazi invasion of Europe and before dementia came knocking. Knowing her then will help you to understand how she was able to deal with her diagnosis after.

You will laugh, you will cry, and I am sure you will come to love her like I do.

Our journey will inspire you and give you hope and understanding coupled with some important tools to help navigate dementia’s ruthless confusion with real solutions and ideas.

Our life with dementia spanned twelve heartbreaking, nerve-racking, inspiring years of learning how to dance this crazy dance that became our life.

Love did manage to blossom in the midst of dementia’s complete despair.

My hope is that it will blossom in yours too.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781649520630

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When Dementia Came Knocking

A Daughters Journey : In the Beginning

Christine Tirman

Copyright © 2020 Christine Tirman

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books, Inc.

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2020

ISBN 978-1-64952-062-3 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64952-063-0 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

August 1, 2011

In the Beginning

When dementia came knocking, it was barely audible—a very faint tap, tap, tap in the farthest corner of my mind giving me pause to wonder, but not loud enough to get my full attention. It was persistent, however, and continued its relentless knocking, first ever so softly, and then getting louder and louder until I could no longer ignore it and was forced to look it in the eye. What do you want? I wondered, and then I knew all too well whom it had come for. I was looking into the face of a stranger, an unwelcome stranger that decided it wanted to reside within my vibrant, larger-than-life mother. It refused to leave, like so many unwanted guests whom we had all been forced to deal with in our lives. I ignored it. I turned my back on it. I cursed it. I cried over it. I pretended it did not exist. I was heartbroken at how ruthless it was, how hungry it was, how it would stop at nothing to get what it wanted. And it got her all right. It got her and would not let go, and that, my friends, is how our journey began.

August 2, 2011

The First Signs

My mom was eighty-one when she retired. At eighty-one years old, she was active, vibrant, and a force to be reckoned with. I started noticing subtle changes within a year of her retirement. Always one to remember birthdays, she started to forget. Events would occur that she participated in, and she had little or no recollection within weeks of them. Her house was always immaculate, and she started to let that go, claiming a little dirt never hurt anyone, and besides, she liked her dirt; it kept her company! Repetition was another red flag. She would repeat conversations repeatedly. Her stories were stories we heard hundreds of times. I was not too concerned at first, but as the months passed and her forgetfulness escalated, I began to worry, especially for her safety since she was still driving.

I decided I would continue to watch over her and just keep a record of her impending decline. That was when my writing started. I needed an outlet. I needed support. I needed to know I was not alone, and let me tell you, I found out quickly that I was not. So many of you had gone through the same or similar dealings with your parent(s). Writing, for me, is therapeutic. Hopefully, this continuing journey will help many of you who are struggling with similar issues, a few of which sound something like this:

When is it time to take definitive action to ensure the one you love is protected?

How do I prepare her/him for the upcoming transition from home to facility?

How do I take care of myself in the process?

So many questions that I discovered the answers to by trial and error, and believe me, it was not easy. It was not easy at all.

You will laugh.

You will cry.

You will love.

You will hate.

You will run through the entire spectrum of emotions, and believe me that plenty of them will frighten you, will shock you, will leave you breathless and weak and alone.

Yes, dementia is not for the faint of heart, but you will find that you are much stronger than you give yourself credit for.

I promise.

You will.

August 3, 2011

I have decided to go back to the start of my journaling so that all of you can get a glimpse into my thoughts and feelings going forward. I am not an expert on dementia but have found, through trial and error, my way through this complicated maze.

This one is called the proclamation.

God must have an incredible sense of humor. As a child, I was always asking why. Why do I have freckles? Why does the dark scare me? Why do I have to sit when I pee when my brothers get to stand? Why does it hurt? Why can’t I when everybody else is doing it?

Why, why, why?

All my questions, all my whys. Now it is payback time.

The other day, my aging mother asked me why.

I said to her, I have already told you a hundred times already, and her reply was, Well, tell me one hundred and one.

All those times I pestered her. All those times I frustrated her. All those times I called her mean and unreasonable. I even called her Hitler once.

What was once a vibrant, vivacious, headstrong woman is suddenly a child again, reverting to the whys of her youth. Why is this happening? Why can’t I drive anymore? Why am I afraid? Why can’t I? How come? And then, Why am I here? Why can’t I go home?

This is your home, Mom.

Her reply was, "Why?"

She said I was mean the other day. She even called me Hitler.

Yep, God has a wonderful sense of humor.

I just wish I were laughing.

August 4, 2011

Last night, I asked Mom how she was doing. She said, Not so good, my friend. Not so good mentally.

I replied, I am not doing so good mentally either, Mom.

She laughed and said, Good, now I have company.

And I said, Yeah, it’s a bitch, isn’t it?

And she said, Yeah, it’s a real bitch!

And we both started laughing, and then we cried.

August 5, 2011

As Mom ambled from room to room, looking at all her things, she asked me, "Is this all mine?

Of course, it is, Mom. This is all your stuff.

Well, how did it get here?

I hired a moving van to bring the heavy furniture, then I boxed up the rest and brought it over.

You did a good job. I couldn’t have done it better myself.

Thank you, Mom. It was not an easy task. You have enough stuff to fill a new wing at the Smithsonian! I just wanted you to be surrounded by all your favorite things.

You are such a good girl, my friend. I want to do something for you for working so hard.

My mind began to race at the possibilities.

An all-expenses paid vacation to Paris!

A year’s supply of gasolines.

A face-lift!

"OMG, you are going to give me a total body massage at an exclusive spa!"

I am going to buy you a plant, she said.

You got to love this woman.

A plant is just what I wanted!

Thanks, Mom.

August 6, 2011

Confirmation

I sat across from Mom at dinner last night, feeling the wine warm my cheeks and envelope my body in a sense of relaxation. I asked her about a photo taken of her at age twelve during her confirmation ceremony. In it, she is wearing a white veil and is kneeled at the altar. She is stunningly beautiful and angelic looking. I remember that day, she tells me. When I asked her about her faith, she said, It never really continued after that. Sometimes I believe, and sometimes I do not.

When we were stationed at LRAFB, my family went to the Presbyterian church there, but Dad decided it was not for us since all the town’s crooks sat in the front row, and none of our black neighbors graced the pews. I told her the crooks were exactly where they needed to be, and the lack of our black neighbors showed ignorance and prejudice based on fear. She blamed God for the poor peasants in Italy giving all they had to the church. She blamed the church for having such grand, ornate buildings while people starved. She blamed God for all the troubles in the world. If there is a God, she wondered, why does not he do something about it?

He does, Mom, I said. He works through us. We are his hands. We are his eyes. We can make a difference if we allow him to use us.

Her response to that was, Oh, what’s for dessert?

Funny how I was feeling so knowledgeable and profound in my words, and her most crucial thought was dessert! But you know what, that is okay. One never knows when something we say settles in a troubled mind or lies comfortably in a breaking heart. One never knows how we affect others. Our only hope is that we affect them in a positive way.

Mom and I had dinner last night. What affected me most about the evening was we connected. However brief, we connected.

August 7, 2011

Eugenia

Sitting with Mom on her back patio, we watched as little birds splashed about in her birdbath and fought over who got to eat from the bird feeder first. It was magical. The weather was perfect, and the sun was beginning to set. Mom held a beat-up old box on her lap that was filled with buttons, needles, and other sewing implements. If this box can talk, I thought, what stories it will tell.

At that very moment, she began to speak. These belonged to my grandmother, Eugenia, she said. They are incredibly old. I lived with her until I was ten years old. I slept on a small couch next to her bed. Her place was very tiny but cozy. She was good to me and exceedingly kind. Did you know that she sewed for the Czar Nicholas when she was twenty-one? She was their seamstress.

I have heard that story before, Mom, but tell me again.

"My mother and father had to work and couldn’t take care of me. My mom was the concierge at a big department store in Paris, and my father worked for the electric company. His duty was to find the people that did not pay their bills, and boy, could he find them. He was like a bloodhound! He also flew planes during World War I."

I love stories, especially hers. I am finding things out that I never heard before. As we got up to go back into her cottage, I asked her where she wanted me to put her box.

Leave it right there. I want to touch her things again. They are special, you know.

I know, Mom. They are, just like you.

August 8, 2011

Depressed

Mom continued her story the next day and told me this.

Eugenia had two children: a boy named Charles and your grandmother, Berthe. They did not get along, your Memere and Charles. She was sophisticated and fashionable.

He was a bohemian.

What is so bad about being a bohemian? Is that, like, being a hippie?

No, not really. He was a vagabond and did not amount to much. He lived in a bus with his six kids and his gypsy wife. He used to visit the trash bins and take other people’s junk. That embarrassed his aristocratic Turkish family.

Mom, that explains everything. I go to thrift stores. I have even taken things from trash bins that I thought were worth saving. It is in my blood. I cannot help myself, and then suddenly, my behavior made more sense. I was like my great-great-granduncle! How cool is that?

She looked down at my new pair of Rocket Dog depressed loafers that I paid a pretty penny for.

Where did you get those ugly shoes? Out of the trash bin or at the thrift store?

Mom, they are depressed shoes. They are supposed to look like that. I just bought them, and they are so comfortable, and I love them.

I would be depressed too if I looked like that!

And then she told me to get my money back or go through the trash bins again. I might find a better-looking pair of shoes!

I laughed all the way home.

Great-great-granduncle Charles would have laughed too!

August 9, 2011

What is with the elderly wearing sweatshirts when it is eighty degrees outside? While driving Mom to Kroger, we passed a little old lady walking across the road by her cottage. The air was stifling and hot, and she was dressed in sweats.

That one is nuts. She talked my ear off yesterday at lunch. I could not get her to shut up. Told me her whole life story. I finally said, ‘I am sorry. I have to leave now,’ and I got out of there in a hurry.

Mom, she was just trying to be nice and make you feel welcome.

I don’t need that kind of welcome.

Well, what did she tell you about her life?

I don’t know. I couldn’t understand a word she said.

Were you wearing your hearing aids?

No, I have an earache, and they itch. She made it worse. Nuts, that one, really cuckoo.

Once the groceries were put up, she went to her room to change clothes. She came back wearing a long sweatshirt.

Mom, it’s eighty degrees in here.

What did you say?

I said it is so hot in here.

There’s a lot to fear?

"No, I said it’s hot in here."

Where’s the baby deer?

Good night, Mom. I am headed home.

You found my comb?

August 10, 2011

Let me start by saying, I was a bit apprehensive leaving Mom so soon into her retirement home experience to head out on my much-anticipated adventure with my daughter Tara, but I decided to take a leap of faith and just do it. Our little road trip took us over five thousand miles through eleven remarkably diverse and unique states, and all this spanned out over a two-week period! It was awesome! America is indeed beautiful. Those we met along the way were from all walks of life, kind, engaging, and helpful. We even took photos of those who inspired us. More of that will come later. I did call Mom everyday while we were gone, and our conversations went something like this.

Hi, Mom, this is Chris.

Who? Chris. Who?

This is your daughter, Christine.

Where are you?

We just left Little Rock, headed through Oklahoma and then Texas. We are so excited.

I wanted to come too.

No, Mom, this was a trip planned just for Tara and me, for our birthdays. You and I have traveled all over the world together. Tara and I have never had the chance until now, and besides, the bug is packed to the rafters. The only room available is if we tied you onto the top!

"Oh, well, be careful out there. Where did you say you were?"

We just now left.

I could have come, you know.

She needed time to adjust to her new surroundings. I needed time just to catch my breath and enjoy. We both came through this with a new appreciation for each other. When I got home, I went over to see her with a sackful of Civil War and WWII movies. She said, Where did you get all these? At the thrift store?

No, Mom, I went through all the trash bins along the way!

My mom, she knows me all too well!

August 11, 2011

When I got Mom home from dinner, I decided to try a different tactic to get her to take her antidepressants (so-called vitamins). When you take your sleeping pill, take your ‘memory pill’ with it. That way, you only take the pills at night. Will that help you?

She looked at me and asked, What are they for?

I said, "They are for your memory."

She said, "What memory?"

I said, "Exactly!"

August 11, 2011

My mom relayed this story to me about what happened to her and her sister after her mother (in her midnineties) passed away at a nursing home in Paris. They were gathered at the French consulate’s office waiting to settle Memere’s estate. The man told them that her back taxes would have to be paid before the estate could be settled. They both looked at each other, confused, and asked him what exactly he meant by that. He said that Memere owed the French government back taxes. They simultaneously said, That is impossible. Our mother was very conscientious and always paid her bills on time.

The man then quietly opened his briefcase and slid a piece of paper across the desk to them. They stared in disbelief as they read the note in my grandmother’s handwriting that she had sent to the French government.

It said, I am too old to pay taxes!

When Mom got notice this year that a mistake was made on her tax return in 2009 and that she still owed Uncle Sam, she turned to me and said, Just send them a note telling them that I am too old to pay taxes as well. And besides, why do we have to pay taxes anyway?

I told her that the money was used to run this country.

She looked at me and said, Well, they are not doing a particularly good job of it, are they?

August 11, 2011

When the light begins to fade…

I noticed something profound about my mom the other day that touched me deeply. The light, that brilliant light, that used to shine from her heart to her eyes had dimmed. The smile that used to dance on her lips quit dancing. Her movements were slower; her reactions questioned. I noticed that her joy was not room filling like it once was. It hurt to see her this way.

Her daily mantra is, I don’t like my life today.

I would tell her that she was responsible for her life, that she could make a difference in it. She could engage more with her new friends, but somehow, I knew that would not be happening, not anytime soon anyway.

What friends? she would say.

The women you eat with, the ladies you interact with. Are they not your friends?

She told me no, not really.

I then asked her what it would take to bring her joy back.

Her reply was, Daddy, he would bring my joy back. Why did he have to die before me?

Mom, that is a question I can’t answer.

I made a mental note to make an appointment for her with her doctor.

Mom, it is going to be okay.

I know. I know, she said, but her reply was not convincing.

I would love to make it all right in her world, but sadly, I could not. All I can do is stand by her, be available for her, and watch over her as best I can.

It saddens me to see her light so dim.

Tomorrow is another day, and maybe, just maybe, it will start to shine again.

August 12, 2011

Hi, Mom, it’s Chris!

Who?

It’s Chris.

Who?

Your daughter Christine!

Why didn’t you say so? What’s happening?

Just calling to check on you.

Why haven’t you called?

I do, Mom, every day!

You do? I forget. Listen, I am missing a pewter candleholder and a shoe.

Mom, I told you that I probably, accidently, packed them up when I moved your stuff over. I will look for them for you.

You told me that?

Yes, yesterday.

We talked yesterday?

Mom, how can you remember a candleholder you got forty years ago, and you cannot remember our conversation yesterday?

And her reply was, Why would I want to remember that?

August 13, 2011

As Mom slid into the car last night, she turned to me and said, I woke up at 2:00 a.m. and noticed that Daddy was not in the bed with me. I got up and went looking for him but could not find him. I could not imagine where he was. When I went back into the bedroom, I noticed all of his pictures, and then I remembered.

My heart sank for her. She is still struggling with his absence, even though his passing occurred twenty-two years ago. I have noticed more and more that she is living in the past, remembering mostly those times when he was front and center in her life, a past where her happiness lived.

When she started to unravel, it started out slowly and gradually picked up speed. When I started to unravel, it started quickly and then gradually began to slow down. I used to dread checking on her every day, knowing that I would be bombarded with questions about why this was happening and why that was happening. When I finally got settled into a routine that was manageable, I found that I began to look forward to our visits. I never know what state of mind she will be in but always know that there will be plenty of laughter, plenty of stories to listen to and tell, and a whole lot of patience to be practiced.

My mom is a delight. My mom is a handful. My mom can drive me up the wall with her stubbornness. My mom can and will cut straight to the chase and keep me on my toes.

The more I am with her, the more I realize just how much she means to me.

Beneath the veil of dementia, I am finding out, is a woman who has displayed courage, tenacity, intelligence, resolve, and to some degree, patience.

Patience with a daughter who is learning, right along with her, and allowing her to stumble, make mistakes, become unglued, and stand there with her through it all.

She will probably forget our visits, our conversations, our disagreements, our laughter, and our tears, but rest assured, I will not.

Not for one minute will I forget.

August 14, 2011

Wanted to give you a glimpse into the life of my mom when she was a young girl in Paris during the war. Knowing our past can often shed light on who we are today. Her stories are incredible. I would like to share them with you as we take this journey together.

The German

He was so handsome and so nice to me. He was guarding the Pont de Sèvres, a bridge I crossed every day on my way to school. I would stop and talk to him. He had blond hair and blue eyes. He looked dashing in his German uniform. I cannot remember his name, but I know he liked me. I was sixteen. We snuck away one day, rode the subway to the other side of Paris so we wouldn’t get caught together.

Wow, Mom, were not you scared?

No, not really.

I remember being sixteen and feeling invincible, that life would go on forever, but I could not imagine being sixteen and living with German occupation in my village. Did he try to kiss you?

Oh no, he was too polite to try. I never saw him after that. I heard they sent him to the Russian front. He probably died there. But I remember him. He was so handsome and so nice to me. He was just a boy.

I was struck by her honesty. By her bravery. I would have been scared to death to even attempt to hang out with the enemy. Kindness goes a long way, regardless of what uniform you wear. My mom, a sixteen-year-old, sneaking out just like I used to do. I had to laugh at that, but her rebellion would have had far more devastating consequences if she had been discovered.

One of my friends had an affair with a German officer. He was killed during a raid, and she came back home to be with her family. The townspeople heard of her affair and decided to make of her an example. They stripped her naked and drew Nazi swastika signs all over her body. They then dragged her through the streets.

She survived.

Dear God, Mom, weren’t you afraid that would happen to you?

I was sixteen. I was too young to realize what could happen. He was nice to me. He noticed me. He smiled at me.

I remember being sixteen and the feeling I would get if I got noticed. We sat in silence after that, me, in my mind, thinking what it must have been like for her, and Mom sitting there with a gleam in her eye. She smiled, remembering that time in her life such a long time ago.

August 16, 2011

The secrets of my mother’s past, when revealed to me, were riveting and sometimes shocking. They changed my view of who she was. I would like to share them with you. Our parents were young once, with the same insecurities, fears, hopes, and dreams that we all shared. We will be old soon, facing some of the same unique challenges that they are facing now.

This was what she told me.

The war in Europe was in full swing and had finally reached the streets of Paris. My mom, who was fourteen, started working at a bakery in the very heart of the city. Her duty was to take the ration tickets that were traded in for bread, paste them into a book, and give them to the head mistress at the end of her shift. She took pity on the elderly, who stood in line for hours with nothing more than ragged threads on to protect them from the cold, only to be handed a piece of day-old bread at the end of their wait. She started giving them more than what their rations would allow and eventually recruited a boy who worked in the creamery next door to do the same. They traded among themselves and took care of anyone who was in need. Eventually, word got to the headmistress of her devious deeds, and Mom was arrested and spent two days in jail. She never revealed the identity of the young man who had helped her. She told me that she never regretted, not once, what she did.

This was my mom, the same woman who scared the living daylights out of me when I was growing up. The same woman who expected nothing but the best and, when that was achieved, showed little pride or gave any acknowledgment in the form of praise. The same woman who ruled the roost with an iron fist without ever laying a hand on you. I love you was never said, although she showed it in other ways that I only recognized later when I became an adult. This is the woman I called Hitler once, whom I thought was uncaring, whom I thought had a heart hardened by her past experiences. This is the same woman whose heart I so wanted to have a piece of. When she told me this story, I cried.

Suddenly, every so-called hurt that I had harbored in my heart all these years just vanished. Yes, this was my mom.

It was cold that day, and the line of people stretched around the block, waiting patiently for their rations to be filled, and a fourteen-year-old girl gave them everything she had.

August 17, 2011

Sometimes, my patience runs thin. Sometimes, my patience is nowhere to be found. This was one of those days.

I went to pick up Mom on Sunday for our traditional Sunday night family dinner. There she sat, smiling from ear to ear, happy and ready to get out of the house. She needed a change of scenery, she said! I went over to check her pill register to make sure she was taking her daily vitamins (actually, they were for depression). She was not. This had become a source of frustration for me because I had written her specific instructions, had her vitamins neatly packed in each compartment with the date, and went over and over with her why it was important for her to take them and to stay healthy. I even called her every morning to remind her. I turned around and yelled, Mom, why are you not taking your vitamins like I asked?

I did, she said.

No, you didn’t. Here are today’s, still in the case. Exactly what is it going to take to get you to do this? I want you to take them right now!

She crossed her arms, squinched up her face at me, and said, "No."

Mom, I am so pissed off at you right now!

She looked right back at me and said, Look out, everybody. She is really pissed out!

I busted out laughing. "Pissed out? Is that what you just said? It’s pissed off, Mom, not pissed out!"

Then she too started to laugh, and the bitch in me just vanished.

August 18, 2011

Fearing for the safety of her daughter, my grandmother sent my mom to a Catholic convent in the north of France, where, at age seventeen, she stayed and worked for one year. There she was made to sew parachutes for the Germans and lace underwear for their aristocratic women. A team of eight girls were given a quota of one parachute a day, and if that was not met, their daily ration of one rutabaga was withheld. A code number that represented each eight-girl team was sewn into the parachute in the event it failed to deploy. The girls responsible would be severely punished or shot.

I cannot even imagine what that must have been like for her.

Mom told me the pressure to perform was exceedingly difficult to deal with, but the kindness of the nuns who oversaw this operation helped her through the day. They slept on pallets stuffed with straw, which were sometimes infested with lice. If a girl became infested, she was made to strip naked and hosed down with insecticide, which would cause her skin to burn. Some even had to have their heads shaved. Also, they were not allowed to talk during working hours, which sometimes lasted well into the evening. All in all, it was not so bad, she said, simply because they knew that this was better than being raped or tortured by the enemy, or so it was rumored.

This was their safety…this. Again, I can’t even fathom what that must have been like for a teenage girl to endure.

Sewing the lace undergarments was not so bad either, except that it was all hand stitched, and her fingers would ache and sometimes bleed at the end of the day. This was all told to me matter-of-factly, as if it was the normal situation back then.

I sat in silence, looking at my mom, trying to imagine war-torn Europe and the pressures that faced so many. I tried to imagine. I just hung my head and thanked God for his watchful care over her. My tumultuous teenage years was nothing compared to what I just heard. As I got up to leave, I looked back at Mom and asked her, Do you ever eat rutabaga?

Her answer was, Are you kidding me? That is a stupid question. I hate rutabaga. Wouldn’t you?

August 19, 2011

Hi, Mom, it’s Christine. I have great news!

I am sorry. I do not understand you. Who is this?

It’s your daughter Christine. Turn down the volume on your TV so you can hear me.

What?

I said, ‘Turn down the volume on your TV!’ [I could hear in the background the sounds of gunfire, bombs blasting, and voices yelling.] What are you watching?

"The Longest Day!"

You have seen that a hundred times already!

I know. It is a great movie. I will watch it a hundred more. What is happening?

I have some great news for you.

"I am not watching the news. I just told you I was watching The Longest Day."

Mom, listen to me. I found your candleholder!

What candleholder?

The one you have been asking me to look for ever since you moved.

I did?

Yes, you had a set and only had one of them.

Really?

Yes, it is pewter and holds three candles.

A long pause and then, Oh, that one. Great! Bring it over when you can. I forgot all about it.

I searched many nights in vain for that darn thing and went through more boxes than I cared to count. Now she could not even remember. I did not have the heart to tell her I did not find her little porcelain shoe. I was sure she forgot about that one. Thank goodness. God loves her.

God, help me.

Christine?

Yes, Mom.

Where’s my shoe?

August 20, 2011

The Missionary Position

You may be wondering why this story is on a page about dementia. More and more, the past is where my mother now lives. A past filled with wonderful stories, poignant memories, and exciting revelations about the man she so loved. This is one of those stories.

Long before my dad met my mom, he was stationed at the Gilbert Islands in the South Pacific. It was sometime in the mid-’40s, I believe, but I am not sure. He was a young lieutenant in the Air Force. He loved the island, its people, their customs, and especially loved the native girls. They were dark-skinned and, to him, some of the most beautiful in the world. They wore little if anything at all! They were a simple, hardworking people with pure hearts and broad smiles. Family meant everything to them. My father soon won the affections and trust of the people and was regarded as one of their own. He took the time to learn their customs and their language. This was the beginning of his lifelong love for languages (he managed to master twelve during his lifetime).

Soon after his stint began, a group of missionaries came to the island to tame these so-called wild savages and teach them about God. Boxes of T-shirts were handed out to all the naked women to cover their shame. The next day, all the village women gathered to model their new clothes, all smiling from ear to ear, all very eager to please these new strangers called dah-met-dong (white man in Gilbertese).

There, lined up by side, were these chorus line of beauties, all sporting their new T-shirts with one alteration—huge holes had been cut out to give them maximum breast exposure.

Smack-dab in