I grew up in a small town in Southeast Kansas, about 150 miles from any city larger than 50,000. Chanute is about the size of Maumee, but because of its isolated rural setting, Chanute has a different atmosphere. Living in Maumee for 13 years, I still say I'm from Kansas, if asked. Oh, I love Maumee, don't get me wrong please. It has just the right mix of small town feel but is close enough to big city convenience and entertainment, doesn't it? It's just that I think everyone relates their home town to the town of their birth.

Maybe it's because I live so far from home, or maybe those of you who still live near your childhood homes experience the same feelings when you drive through your old neighborhoods. When I go home to visit, especially now at age 45 (almost!), I have these waves of uncontrollable nostalgia and memory. It's true what the researchers have discovered about memory - that it is triggered by smells and sounds, but there's more.

Lately, when I drive back through the Flint Hills of Kansas, on my twice-yearly (or so) visits home, I am surprised by the feelings that are evoked from deep in my solar plexus. I didn't know memories were kept there. But, why not, if also in the olfactory senses? Memories can be in your eyes, your nose, your skin, in the pit of your stomach where they come barreling out of hiding as you pass the old ghost town that still exists near the highway. Your emotions rail against these unbidden feelings and you wonder why you are angry about the progress of the new highway that bypasses your childhood route.

Then you get to your hometown, taking the long way so you can show your kids what it was like to "drag Main." And your town has changed, but it hasn't. The train station now houses the library and the Safari Museum. For a few years, they tried parallel parking on Main Street so there could be four lanes of traffic. No one could parallel park, so it's back to two lanes and diagonal parking. Most of Main Street's stores have similar purposes to your memory of them - clothing, hardware (where your dad bought you your first two-wheeler). The People's Theater (where you had your first makeout session and watched every Jerry Lewis movie ever made) is now a twin-plex.

The new stuff seems to fit the atmosphere. The Wal-Mart adds a touch of big-city convenience (open 24 hours!), but you still can't find a sit-down restaurant after 2 pm on Sunday. And heaven forbid you should want the services offered by a "Mailboxes, Etc." or a "Kinko's". You're out of luck there.

Recently, I experienced my first trip back to visit my dad since my mother's unexpected death. All my life, I had pictured the opposite occurring - that Daddy would die because of his smoking, and that Mother - fun-loving, held-back Mama - would find more to life than sitting around complaining about the drudgery of her life. But, despite her healthful living, my mother had a fatal condition lurking deep within her heart. None of us knew she was probably having "mini-strokes"* quite often and for many years. They took a little part of her with each occurrence; chipping away at her memory, her confidence, even her personality. Until the big stroke, followed by a heart attack a week later, finally took her life at 79.

So, there we were six months later, visiting Dad, who did ask us to come, my oldest son (his favorite) and me, his youngest daughter. We awkwardly chose our sleeping arrangements. I took the spare bedroom (all the bedrooms had been mine at some point, having outstayed all my older siblings), but this was now the spare bedroom, Mama's sewing room. Joe took Mama's bedroom, with the television so he could hook up his video games. I couldn't bring myself to sleep in the room where she had spent so many years, decorated with photos of her heroes (Frank Sinatra, Jack Nicklaus, "Morris" the cat). It was too soon.

We only stayed a couple of days. We checked on Dad's habits and health. He's eating regularly, if less than ideally: frozen dinners and frozen breakfasts high in sodium, various and sundry small-town cafes and so-called restaurants. His driving is still adequate from what I could tell. Luckily the small town where he lives never has much traffic, and he can get anywhere he needs to within just a mile or two of driving. He's always been suspicious of the medical profession. When he showed me the litany of herbs and minerals he is taking, I asked if his doctor knew he was taking them so it wouldn't interfere with his prescriptions. "Not on any prescriptions," was his answer. His little dog helps his outlook tremendously, giving him reason to leave the house to visit the park and stay on a schedule. He did cook one meal from scratch. Filet mignon. Fried. "What's the difference between the heat of a pan and the heat of a fire," he argued when I suggested broiling them instead. He was hell-bent on proving he could cook, so I shut up. It tasted fine, and I was thrilled he had the gumption to do it, even if it was just to make a point.

I went to visit my oldest friend, Coleen, who still lives in the area. We were each other's bridesmaids right out of high school. We've both since divorced, remarried and are much happier now. We've visited every time I have come home for the last 30 years. First we'd talk about high school days. Then we chatted about our marriages. Then we discussed dating and "life after marriage". Finally our kids. Now we talk about our parents and what it's like to watch them age. And become ill. And die. And we talk about high school days. Ahh, life without responsibility. How little did we know!

Maybe it's harder for those who stay close to home. They have to watch it little by little. They have to admit that it's happening. Those of us who left home for greener pastures get to be in denial a little longer. We take the phone calls at face value: "You okay, Mom?" "Sure, just fine." "You eating okay, Dad?" "Oh, yeah, I get plenty to eat."

Long distance caregivers have to make the most of their visits home. The nostalgia of your hometown can be overwhelming, but your parents' decline can be devastatingly clear.

But then when you do come home after 6 months, a year, maybe 2, you're in shock. Mom didn't look stooped over last time you saw her. Dad didn't wheeze like that last time, did he? The house never got this dusty when you lived here. Is that a late-notice on the pile of mail on the corner desk?

It's time, folks. Time to take inventory of our lives and our parents' lives so we aren't caught off guard. I need someone to talk to. You might need to hear these things. So, if you're up for it, I'm ready to talk. If you'll listen, you might find some comfort here, some companionship, some camraderie. They may call us the "Sandwich Generation." It feels more like goulash to me. Bread I could deal with. Noodles are slippery.

*Mini-strokes, also known as Trans-Ischemic Attacks (TIA's), are usually caused by small blood clots in the brain, causing varying degrees of damage.

Debra Sorensen, MSW, LISW, CMC, is a professional care manager and owner of Debra J. Sorensen & Associates Inc., a private geriatric care management company serving Northwest Ohio and Southeast Michigan. She can be reached at 419-367-8835 or e-mail Debra@professionalcareforyou.com.