The words “turkey ala king” on the dinner menu here at the old folks’ home made me queasy. Maybe that isn’t the right word. I don’t have a violent dislike for the stuff. It has never made me sick, but it is boring. What if I fall asleep and my face ends up in the fowl concoction?
After a moment or two of shallow thought, I decided that doing laundry was the more exciting option. I rummaged through the unruly mess in and around the hamper, filled a basket with dirty clothes and headed to the laundry room. Edith was there, reading a magazine while a washer went through its spin cycle.
“Doing some laundry?” she said.
“Have to. Dirty clothes are taking over the apartment.”
“Good time to do it. Everyone’s at dinner.”
I nodded and filled a washer with colors and another with whites. As those washers went into action, Edith’s spun to a halt. She took several items from the washer and laid them on her walker. She put the rest in a dryer.
“I’m going back and hang these up on the shower-curtain rod,” she said. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
Twenty minutes later, Edith pushed her walker back into the laundry room, took her clothes from the dryer, cleaned the lint trap, and said, “Have a good night.”
How could I not? Seeing Edith do her laundry, or any mundane task, is inspiring. Edith is 105.