Uncle Fuzzy’s Quilt

Posted on by Victoria

“I have often had a retrospective vision where everything in my past life seems to fall with significance into logical sequence.”
― Ansel Adams

I wrote about a dear family member, almost a year ago and that post, about my delightful Great Uncle “Fuzzy” is on my mind. One of the unexpected joys as a result of writing “Surviving Sue” is reader interest in my journey with my mom from an elder care perspective. I’ve come to realize my observations as a child helped me understand caregiving roles and dear Uncle Fuzzy is center stage.

If I close my eyes, even now, I can picture Uncle Fuzzy sitting on the porch at my Grandma’s house with his beloved crazy quilt wrapped around his thin legs.

The image above showcases snips of Uncle Fuzzy’s quilt. I don’t know how old it is, but I’m guessing it’s a centenarian at this point, tossed in a trash heap more than once…but rescued every time. By me. It’s a family treasure because it holds sweet memories of two dear men. My dad, plus Uncle Fuzzy who introduced me to the pain of dementia.

As a child my eyes were wide – always – as I watched the behavior of adults around me. Captivated whenever I saw examples of loving kindness. Years later, I’m still amazed by the stickiness of childhood memories and their ability to deftly foreshadow scenes in my future. I understand now.

The glimpses of my dad caring for Uncle Fuzzy with dignity and delight were placed in my memory bank for use, decades later, when my dad was long gone, and Sue became my dependent as her Alzheimer’s took hold.

I remember how my dad interacted with Fuzzy, leaning in gently, respecting Fuzzy as a remarkable man, not a man-child in the making:

Uncle Fuzzy would get anxious toward the end of the meal.  Restless.  Sometimes he’d get up and throw his plate on the floor when he couldn’t remember someone’s name or if he got confused about which holiday we were celebrating.  Little flashes of anger weren’t uncommon but everyone knew he wasn’t mad AT someone.  He was upset at himself. 

My dad always had one watchful eye on Uncle Fuzzy and would take him outside for a walk, ‘to get some air’ when the thunderclouds came.  On the porch was a set of rocking chairs and after a while, I’d find the two sitting together, humming a song.  Peaceful…and then Uncle Fuzzy would nod off, and dad would cover him…you guessed it…with his quilt.

I think of these scenes from my life as micro-memory tools, helping me find softness when it’s the best response.

Softness that is slower, more deliberate, more patient and painstaking – honorable and gracious. Offering support to a loved one in need without infantilizing him or her in the process.

Whether I realized it or not, those memories of watching my dad with Uncle Fuzzy were imprinted upon me, serving me well when I needed my dad’s guidance, but he had long since departed. Memories can do that.

I saw how tenderly my dad regarded Uncle Fuzzy as the vibrant man he’d always been, despite his growing dependency on friends and family members…sometimes strangers…and I learned life lessons about preserving dignity.

Paraphrasing from the Ansel Adams quote above, …”everything in my past life seems to fall with significance into logical sequence”. I see that now. Loving kindness across the generations, captured in a beautiful, tattered quilt.

Vicki ❤

https://victoriaponders.com/2024/04/24/where-does-a-year-go/

Grace & Patience – The Heart of the Matter (sharingtheheartofthematter.com)

44 thoughts on “Uncle Fuzzy’s Quilt”

  1. Pingback: Where Does a Year Go? – Victoria Ponders

    1. Oh my gosh, really? That’s a first for me…I’ve never met anyone who had a family member with that fun nickname. And your grandfather and my great uncle…not knowing how they got the name Fuzzy is funny, isn’t it? Thanks so much for sharing, Duke! 🥰

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      1. Of course he has been gone for many decades now and still there is one memory that stands out. He would never talk about his relationship with my grandmother. We were on his front porch swing one day and he said ” never treat a woman they way I treated your grandmother”. ( she had been gone for several years by then). He never went any further other than that comment but I had a pretty good idea what he was talking about not cheating on the woman in your life. Sadly my family has a long history of married men cheating on their wives. I haven’t done so in over 27 years now and that won’t change.

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      2. It’s funny – what stands out in those conversations…what’s said and what’s omitted. Vague references, leaving us to put the pieces together. Love your front porch memories of your grandfather. 😉

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  3. It’s remarkable how objects can hearken back those memories, isn’t it? And your observation about loving kindness across the generations is just beautiful. That’s how it should be, and I’m fortunate to have that in my family, also.

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    1. I like that observation, Erin. Maybe it’s the most important thing – “kindness across generations”. Thank you for that…glad to know you have that dynamic in your family. 🥰

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  4. Preserving dignity. Yes. That’s so important, I think. I loved reading of your uncle Fuzzy, and I am glad you mentioned he would throw things on the floor when he got confused (as my mom used to throw her beloved Bible on the floor when her Alzheimer’s had progressed). I picked it up on one of my visits a couple years before she passed. It is one of my best treasures of hers, as she had written in many a margin.

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    1. Wow…what a keepsake for you – her Bible with her margin notes. That’s lovely, Sheila. And yes – throwing and flinging things – even treasured items. It can be hard to watch the frustration and confusion. I agree. Thank you for sharing. 🥰

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      2. You are so sweet. I think that’s what friends are for – helping us see things we might miss and sharing experiences that are similar. You understand those connections. Nothing is random. xo! 🥰

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  5. What a beautiful reminder of how much we learn from watching and listening as we move through life. And a wonderful conclusion in your response to Sheila – nothing is random

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    1. You are the best…reading the post and comments and picking up on that nuance with Sheila. I agree…so nice to have like-minded friends like you, Michael. Being aware, watching, listening. Messages and reminders are everywhere. xo! 🥰

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  6. “Softness that is slower, more deliberate, more patient and painstaking – honorable and gracious. Offering support to a loved one in need without infantilizing him or her in the process.”

    Thank you for this poignant reminder Vicky that we need to choose to be painstaking patient if we’re to be honorable and gracious to those whose memory is failing them. There, but for the Grace of God, go us someday in need of another’s painstaking patience.

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    1. Thank you for seeing that, Fred. I think you’re right…it’s a choice to be patient and the reminder that we might very well be in need of that same level of patience someday…sooner or later…sure puts things in perspective. Always grateful for your thoughtful comments. 💕

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  7. Such a beautiful post that shows life from all sides of the coin. And your last sentence, “Loving kindness across the generations, captured in a beautiful, tattered quilt.” Wow!

    Thank you for showing us what loving others and caring for others should look like. This is a post that has that beautiful full circle quality that reminds me of what we can do at our best!

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  8. This is such a gift of your father’s: “I saw how tenderly my dad regarded Uncle Fuzzy as the vibrant man he’d always been, despite his growing dependency on friends and family members…sometimes strangers…and I learned life lessons about preserving dignity.” I treated my mom the same way as she declined mentally. She didn’t have Alzheimer’s but a milder form of dementia. I couldn’t stand it when I was visiting and an aide in her assisting living home would talk to her like she was a child, or if I’d take her out to lunch and the waiter would talk to me like my mom couldn’t communicate.

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    1. Those are perfect examples, Elizabeth, of how easy it is to begin treating our loved ones as “less” just because they can’t communicate as they once did. I bet you did a great job of looking out for your mom and redirecting those who meant no harm, but may have ignored her. Appreciate you for reading and your thoughtful comment. 💕

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      2. I hear you! Oh my. We don’t plan these things out, funny how so many of we blogging types seem to travel similar terrain about memories, families, making meaning out of moments. Thank you for taking the time to read and for always being so supportive.
        🥰🥰🥰

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  9. I hope that I never reach a point of throwing a plate of spaghetti against the wall in anger, but if i do, it would be comforting to know that tender-hearted, loving kindness would be at my side to guide me gently back into sanity. Thank you for reminding me to brush up on my patience skills for when they’ll be needed the most.

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    1. Well, you know how it is, brilliant one. We write to remind ourselves, first and foremost. So while you’re stockpiling patience for a future need – with or without flying spaghetti – I’ll join you.
      🥰🥰🥰

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  10. This is so good, “Whether I realized it or not, those memories of watching my dad with Uncle Fuzzy were imprinted upon me, serving me well when I needed my dad’s guidance, but he had long since departed. Memories can do that.” Simply beautiful!💖

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  12. What beautiful memories of your father and Uncle Fuzzy and speaks volumes to both their characters.

    And the quilt is lovely. It is so deeply personal and one of a kind and it’s so great you’ve kept it through all these decades and to pass it down to the next.

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  13. Thank you for sharing your touching recollections of your father, Uncle Fuzzy, and his quilt. Your father was an extraordinary man who put all others before himself. What a wonderful legacy you’ve inherited along with the quilt! 🙂

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