Feeling at home on an Autumn day in Fenland

Mist photo opportunity: crooked telegraph poles mark out this
quiet Fenland road amid the noon Autumn gloom 

My wife's mum has now been living at the care home on the outskirts of Ely for three months - and she already seems to be institutionalised.
It is no surprise that she quickly forgot she had been living with us in our Fenland village home for more than three and a half years. After all, she inhabits that frightening, twilight world shared by every poor soul who suffers from Alzheimer's Disease.
And yet even though my wife and I know her memory is fading fast - and will continue to deteriorate - we cannot help but feel a deep sense of sadness over the fact that she shared our home, consumed our thoughts and shaped our lives, and yet has no recollection so soon afterwards.
She now possesses just the odd piece of genuine recall to go with her jumbled collection of memories. A giant sepia jigsaw of fading past impressions, with pieces being lost or misplaced at an alarming rate. http://alzheimers.org.uk/  and  http://www.alzheimersresearchuk.org/home/
She remains in the care of a great bunch of professionals while my wife continues her recovery after her accident [see previous post Hip hip hooray! Friday, July 20]. It's a long road, a bumpy old Fenland drove, but she's slowly getting there.
My wife's mum was sleeping in a high-backed chair, head slumped on her chest, when we arrived armed with a few goodies, including a couple of packets of her beloved Werther's Original Butter Mints. They were one of her husband's favourites, too. Those and jelly babies, ice cream, cakes, plain crisps, meat pies, roast beef, chips, bacon sarnies, full English ... actually, the list is endless. Yep, he did like his food, sweet and savoury.
In the television room next door, a familiar hymn was being half-heartedly sung by a visiting vicar and a handful of residents, with accompaniment from a shaky electric organ played by a frail-looking nervous lady. It was like a scene from the League of Gentlemen.
"Wakey, wakey," said the care assistant as she gently prodded my mother-in-law's still form. "You've got visitors."
Her eyes shot open and she stared at her daughter through the thick lenses of her large-framed, old-fashioned specs. Recognition was instant, thankfully. Occasionally, she struggles for a name, but not today.
The three of us plonked ourselves down in the warm conservatory overlooking misty paddocks and fields, and surprisingly for the this area, a few hedgerows and a large variety of trees dressed in rich red and yellow autumn colours. It was an uplifting sight on a chilly, damp day encased by a huge leaden Fenland sky.
We talked for well over an hour. Well, to be truthful, my wife and I listened while she spoke, even though the words she wanted to use often eluded her. The thoughts of Chairman (woman) Meow. Mum-in-law was in a particularly catty mood. The claws were out and nobody was spared.
The clergy, God - or "Him upstairs" - religion in general, her late husband, politicians, her mother, other care home residents ... all took a verbal bashing, despite our attempts to lift her mood. It was obvious she was tired. We recognised the signs. Perhaps an unsettled night.
But then the uncomfortable spell was broken as residents began to shuffle though to the dining room next to our cosy conservatory, some with the help of carers, others with the aid of frames and a few under their own steam. Roast dinner. A glorious, unmistakable smell was in the air and mother-in-law suddenly became aware, turning her head towards the growing clamour behind her as the dining room filled.
"It's lunch-time, mum. It smells good," said my wife.
"Yes it does," she said as she picked up her cumbersome dark blue handbag and stood.
"You'd better take your seat or you'll miss your meal," added my wife encouragingly.
"Yes, you're right, dear. They serve some nice food ... sometimes," replied mother-in-law mischievously as she disappeared through the door.
"We'll see you again soon, Mum," called my wife.
Mum-in-law glanced back in our direction, but seemed preoccupied by matters of the stomach.
"Yes, take care dear. See you soon. Now then, where shall I sit? Shall I sit here?"
In that instant, our visit was over, soon to be forgotten.