We built an 800-square-foot addition onto the north end of our house in 1985.  We had two purposes in mind when doing it.  One was that we had eight children and two adults crammed into our four-bedroom house.  The other was the expectation that we'd also eventually have to make room for Grandma.  The additional 800 square feet turned our house into a 7-bedroom home.

Margie's dad passed away just before Christmas in 1985.  That left Zelma all alone in her big house in Baker.  She hated being alone.  As often as possible we loaned her a child or two who could spend the night and give her company.

Later her granddaughter, Shannon, moved in and lived with her while she attended college in La Grande.  That was a satisfactory arrangement for a while; but we began noticing a reduction in Zelma's mental acuity, and knew that it would just be a matter of time before she could no longer be alone even during the day.

We knew the time had come to do something different the day that Margie went to take her mother shopping.  Zelma came out of her bedroom with her slip over her dress.  Zelma laughed hard at her mistake when the error was pointed out to her.  Margie laughed, too, but inwardly gave a little shudder.

Zelma had taken care of her own senile mother.  Zelma's mother died just a few months before Margie was born.  Margie had grown up with the stories she'd heard about Zelma's experiences taking care of her mother.  Margie knew that her own time had come.

We built the addition with a big, comfortable bedroom with a nice view of the mountains.  That was to be Grandma's room.  It was as far away from the living areas of the house as a room could get.  The theory was that if we got to be too much for Grandma, she could go to her room and get away from the hubbub.

When the addition was finished we began inviting Zelma out to the ranch for overnighters.  We were breaking her in gradually.  Her overnighters increased to two nights, then three, and finally we moved her in altogether.

Grandma loved being with us.  She loved the children, the activity, the scenery, being on the ranch, and being included as part of the family.  The kids teased her, and she loved every minute of it.

Initially Grandma was a help.  She had spent her life cleaning up after dinners, so she just kept up the habit.  She enjoyed being helpful and useful.

She had already pretty much lost the ability to cook, but that didn't prevent her from trying.  We found many a red-hot burner on the stove where she had begun some idea, but then had forgotten what she'd planned to do.  We had to watch carefully so that she didn't burn the house down.

She couldn't stand to see a dirty sink.  If there were food remnants or vegetable peelings in the strainer, we'd see her carefully making her way down the sidewalk heading for the fence on the other side of the driveway where she'd pitch the vegetable peelings and the sink strainer, too.  Whenever the sink strainer came up missing, we knew where to go search for it.

Having Grandma living with us was no big deal as far as the kids were concerned.  They loved their Grandma.  She was fun.  They teased her unmercifully.  She was a tease herself, so she tossed the teasing right back at them.

Matt, especially, enjoyed teasing her.  I think he reminded her a lot of her husband, Dave.  He looked like him in Dave's younger years, and had many of his mannerisms.  Matt called Grandma "My queen" and made false obeisance to her.

"I love him," she said adoringly and with emphasis.

Matt's only trouble was that he didn't know when to stop.  None of the kids did.  As Zelma's senility increased, her tolerance for teasing decreased.  The kids hadn't changed.  Grandma was still fun to pick on, but could no longer take it.  The kids didn't know when to stop.

Things had gone a little too far the New Year's Day that I came into the house and found my teenagers all looking very happy.  By their gleeful, expectant smiles I knew something was afoot.

The longest day of the year may be the first one.  Everyone has just endured Christmas vacation with its excitement and subsequent letdown.  The weather hasn't been good, so much of the time has been spent cooped up in the house.  Having a new year arrive was supposed to be exciting, but it turns out that January 1st looks just like all the preceding days.  If anything, it sparkles even less than its predecessors because it's the last day of vacation, and tomorrow is school.

Long days and boredom are the seedbed for bright ideas.  With four teenagers in one house, it's a foregone conclusion that sooner or later something is going to happen.

I sensed that an event was under way as I stepped in the door from doing my chores New Years Day 1992.  The first thing I saw was 85-year-old Grandma sitting on the couch and talking with someone on the phone.  This was unusual.  Due to her senility she's not fun to talk with anymore, so her children don't call.  They've opted to write letters instead, and thus avoid having to answer nonsensical and impossible questions.

Who could she be talking to?  She was beaming with pleasure.

The second thing I noticed was an unusually quiet and smiling group of children milling about the room and looking like a great, huge laugh was about to explode and engulf them all.

With my curiosity high I entered the kitchen and found my suspicions confirmed.  The other phone was also in use.  Matt was standing just around the corner from Grandma, 15 feet away, talking to her.  Was she aware that she was talking to Matt?  Given the looks on everyone's faces, I thought not.

With a sense of foreboding I went on about my business.  Shortly one of the kids happily told me that everyone Grandma ever knew was going to call her that day.  Her niece, Janeen, whom Grandma had not seen for 20 years had just called and had a visit with her.  Janeen had in reality been Heidi.

Next, Bill Ferguson (Matt) had called her.  Bill Ferguson was Grandma's boyfriend 65 years ago.  As Grandma's mind has reverted to her early memories, she speaks fondly of her old flames, Bill and Bud, (who was going to call her next).

Grandma was thrilled to hear from Bill Ferguson.  It was a voice out of the past.

"Hello, this is Bill Ferguson.  Do you remember me?"

"Bill Ferguson?!  Well, I certainly do!  How are you?"

"I'm pretty good.  My wife died not long ago.  I've been pretty lonely, so I thought about you, and thought I'd call you up and see what you were doing."

How long the conversation went on, I don't know.  But Bill finally told her he was in a rest home, and that the nurses were there to change his diaper, so he'd have to go.

As I went back in the living room and sat down, Grandma was all aglow.  Bill Ferguson had just called her, and she wanted to talk about it.  He had been in the hospital, but was just doing great.  He wished he could see her, and "Darn, I've let him get away.  I don't know his phone number or how to get in touch with him."

Events which took place at the beginning of time were, for the most part, crystal clear in Grandma's mind.  The fact that today was not Sunday and that she was told that for the fifth time just two minutes before was a completely different matter.  Most things which had happened in the past six years had not lodged in Grandma's mind, or the memory of them had become so jumbled as to make them nearly unrecognizable when they were repeated.

Some few things, however, got fixed in her mind with a maddening clarity.  Her phonograph needle got stuck in that groove, and it was impossible to lift it out and get it playing on something else.

It was plain to see that Bill Ferguson's phone call would be one of those mind-stopping events.  It would be embellished and repeated hundreds of times.  Margie and I thought it best, therefore, to pop her bubble right away before we all regretted losing the opportunity.  We, therefore, asked her, "Are you sure that was Bill Ferguson, and not just Matt on the other phone?"

She didn't want to believe it, but knowing Matt as she did, even her mind was able to come to grips with the truth.  "This is the worst thing you've ever done to me, Matt!" she said with vehemence.

She settled back on the couch with her arms folded and lips pursed, fairly steaming.  Suddenly the look would relax, a beatific smile would cross her face, and she'd start to say something about the wonderful phone call she'd just gotten.  Then just as suddenly she'd cut her sentence short, and the storm would return to her face.

Fortunately, reality seems to have won the tug of war her mind went through that time.  The call wasn't mentioned again.  I lived in fear, though, that it got filed in some dusty drawer in the back of her mind, and that at some point in the future she'd discover that drawer and open it up and find a new, embellished, brightly polished but jumbled memory to regale us with.

Zelma was happy to be where she was, but occasionally she'd remember that she was just visiting and would want to go home.  A ride in the country or a short trip to town usually sufficed as a change of scenery, and then she was always glad to be returned to familiar surroundings.

At other times she'd ask where Dave was.

"He died, remember?"

"Well, he did not!" she'd reply.  "I'm going to go call him to come get me."

She'd march to the phone and dial 523-5034.  Her home phone number hung on in her memory for a long, long time.  We were grateful when she finally forgot it.  I'm sure Garcia Trucking Company was, too.  That's who the phone company gave the number to when we had telephone service to the Hunt home disconnected.  Zelma and Garcia Trucking Company's receptionist had many confusing conversations.

Grandma had several themes that played over and over in her head.  She was fixated on Dave, weddings, babies, and anything associated with the first quarter century of her life.  These included things like Beaverdam, Utah, and the ranch where she grew up; her father's death when she was four years old; Angela Edvalson, her co-worker in her twenties; and Bill Ferguson and Manley Strayer, her old flames.  These people and things were talked about over and over as if they were all recent events.

When the phone rang Zelma would always make an effort to answer it because she was sure that it would be Dave or one of the other people calling.  We always jumped to answer the phone so that the caller wouldn't be confused.

Sometimes we weren't quick enough.  Sometimes she'd be right by the phone when it rang.  Jackie called once a month to get my order for livestock supplies and feed.  She had the misfortune to be one of those who had Grandma answer her call.

"Hello," Zelma answered.

"Hi, this is Jackie from Walco.  Is this Marge?"

"No, I'm Ivy's mother."

"Oh, well is Marge there?"

"Uh, here I'll get the bride to be…"

"Hello," Katie says.

"Is this Marge?"  Jackie asked.

"No, she's my mother."

"Oh, dear!…Well, would you just tell her that Jerry will be there next week if you want anything."

Everything was doubled in Zelma's mind.  Our ranch at Haines was just like the one she was born on in Beaverdam.  "Look at that yellow shed up there," she'd say.  "That's just like the one we had in Beaverdam."

"Where's Dave?" she'd ask again.

"He died, remember?"

"Well," she'd say disgustedly, "I mean the other Dave."