Notes from the Home - October 22, 2013

   It’s Monday again, and I am sure today will not top last Monday, which dawned breezy, cool and overcast. And it stayed that way. But it didn’t rain, and shortly after lunch I ventured out. One lap into my travels around Covenant Woods, I pulled up under some trees and called Beth. Much to my surprise and delight, she was home and had time to chat with the old man. Or perhaps she was taking advantage of an opportunity to procrastinate. Her project for the day, after all, was “I need to get this house clean.”

   She talked excitedly about Hayden, who was off visiting Grandma. The young man would be eager to help clean house, and Beth worried that she might not be able to keep up with him. A week or two ago, Hayden, in his rush to get from here to there, had fallen and split his lip. But he’s recovered and is again full of life and bubbling over with curiosity.

   MaKenna, who does not yet get underfoot, was home with Beth. Looks can be deceiving. “She’s a chunk,” Beth had often said of MaKenna. And from the pictures Beth has posted on Facebook and the videos she has sent along, I had to agree. MaKenna has a pudgy round face and appears to have the build of someone who will be able take care of herself should the need arise. A recent trip to the doctor for a check-up revealed, however, that MaKenna is merely average in size and weight. In all other things – especially things such as cuteness, intelligence and beauty of her smile – she is miles above the norm. So says Dr. Grandpa.

   Beth then talked about her latest dream. She wants to get into the canning business. It’s fall, and she’s been busy canning and making jams and jellies. Why not try and sell some of the bounty? Her mind is busy with thoughts of going to farmers’ markets, finding a merchant who will take her handiwork on consignment and taking orders via the Internet. If anyone can pull it off, Beth can.

   The half hour on the phone lifted my spirits, and it wasn’t long before they got another lift. Moments after I got back to the apartment, Debbie called and asked if I wanted to Skype with Hayden. My favorite grandson has graduated from sitting in the high chair to sitting at the table. The highlight of the twenty-minute Skype was being called “Grandpa.”

  

   I woke up early Saturday morning, really early, just after midnight early. I had gone to bed at quarter after nine, read for a few minutes, fell into a sound sleep and woke up a couple of hours later. After trying for an hour to get back to sleep, I got out of bed. It was the third straight morning I’d been up and about in the wee hours, and the first I couldn’t blame on the Boston Red Sox. Richie, my next-door neighbor, brought in Thursday and Friday by yelling “Here we go Red Sox!!! Here we go!!!” “Steelers,” I wanted to shout through the wall. “The name of the team in that cheer is ‘Steelers.’ Get it right.”  But the Red Sox got it right Saturday night, which I found out when Richie yelled, “Way to go Boston!! Here we go Red Sox!!! Here we go!!”

   There is no guarantee I won’t be a creature of the night Wednesday when the Red Sox and Cardinals play Game 1, but if I am up Richie won’t be the cause. He’s going to be out of town for a few days.

  

   The home’s formal name is Covenant Woods Retirement Community. There are times, however, when the place is more like a motel for transients. A month ago there were three men named Marvin among Covenant Woods’ two hundred residents. By the end of this month, there will be just one Marvin here.

   Gray and Margaret, who live in one of the duplexes, are going to move back to South Carolina in a week or two. They’ve been here a little over a year – Gray, Jr. lives in Columbus. Their home in South Carolina is just as they left it.

   “We weren’t sure what we wanted to do with our house, so we didn’t do anything with it,” Margaret said. “We gathered odds and ends to furnish our place here.”

   They are going back because Gray, who suffers from dementia, wants to go back, and the family feels he’d be more comfortable in a familiar place.

   Jean is moving to another retirement community in the Columbus area. At times Jean can be a tiresome old gossip. Most of the time, though, her acid tongue and biting wit are great fun. I wonder what she says about me. No I don’t. I’m better off not knowing.

  

   There was mail in the mailbox yesterday, a letter telling me that as the owner of a Hyundai I can save up to $427.96 on automobile insurance if I switch to Liberty Mutual. Now $428 is $428, but I do not now, nor have I ever, owned a Hyundai. I don’t even own a car. I gave Russ the Aveo when I got down here.

   Had the letter been addressed to “Resident” or “Postal Patron,” I could have dismissed it as just another example of private industry being every bit as wasteful as the government. But this letter was addressed to me, the salutation read “Dear Thomas Harris.” Even more disconcerting was the second letter in the envelope – also bearing the salutation “Dear Thomas Harris” – from Adam Davidson, Manager, Hyundai Motor Finance and part-time shill for Liberty Mutual, urging me to take advantage of the offer.

   With that, I set off for an afternoon in computerized-telephone-system hell, two of the most frustrating hours of my entire frustrating existence. I was able to speak to one homo sapien, a female employed by Liberty Mutual, who said “May I help you?” and “Oh, we get that information from Hyundai.” Hyundai apparently has a company policy that prohibits its employees from speaking on the telephone; a policy enforced a phalanx of computers. Desperate for the sound of a human voice, I asked a few people here if they knew anyone who worked for the local Hyundai dealership, someone who might know the top-secret phone number to people in Hyundai Motor Finance. No luck there, and all the numbers I found on the Internet took me through an endless computerized labyrinth of pressing this number or that number in order to get to another computer offering me other options that took me to other computers with other menus.

   This just occurred to me: Is there a link between computerized phone systems and gun violence? And is there a link between cell phone use and gun violence? Now, hear me out. In the old days, when company phones were answered by incompetent fools, a caller could vent his frustration by suggesting the callee perform a certain physically impossible act of a sexual nature. The 21st Century caller can say the same thing to the computer, but it is not the same, not even close. In the pre-cell phone days, the disgruntled caller could also slam the telephone’s receiver down into its cradle. You can slam your cell phone against the table, but then you have to clean the resulting mess and go buy another phone. Instead of relieving frustration, taking out your frustrations with the modern phone only creates more frustrations.

   But I digress. Unable to find a person at Hyundai, I turned to the Internet and did an on-line credit check. It was reassuring to discover that if I have a doppelganger out there, he didn’t take out a loan for his Hyundai in my name.

   That’s it for now. I’m going to go soak my fingers in acid before I write a letter to Mr. Adam Davidson and ask him where he got my name, why he’s handing it out willy-nilly, and then suggest he go perform a physically impossible act of a sexual nature.

Notes from the Home - October 12, 2013

   “I’m glad it’s Friday,” Randy said as he tossed garbage bags into the dumpster.

   “No overtime this weekend?”

   “No. But I’ve got an outside job.”

   “Painting?”

   “Yeah. We’re going to sign the contract, and I’ll get some upfront money to buy supplies. A few years ago you couldn’t find a painting job anywhere. That’s why I ended up here. Now people call me all the time. ‘Hey, I’ve got a job for you.’ The money is nice, but all the work doesn’t leave much time for beer.

   “Years ago, I worked for this guy who did a lot of work out at Fort Benning. One day we went fishing out on one of the lakes there. We were catching fish like crazy. Finally this guy yells, ‘Damn it’ and throws his rod down. I asked what was wrong. He said we were catching too many fish and there wasn’t any time to drink beer.”

  

   Further along in my morning wanderings, I saw Mary, Louise’s daughter, and her husband. Louise lived down the hall from me until she fell a couple months ago and moved back to what used to be called assisted living, but is now known as personal care. Seeing Louise in the hall was always a treat. She did wonders for my ego, telling me I had the most wonderful smile.

   “You’re always smiling,” she’d tell me. “You’re a real inspiration.”

   But she was the inspiration. To get from hither to yon, she pushed a walker. The only thing I pushed was the wheelchair’s joystick. I asked how Louise was doing.

   “Not so good,” Mary said. “She’s fallen three times since we moved her. And the dementia is getting worse.”

   A while later, Mae called. She had run into Isabelle, who had asked her say hello if she saw me. Ralph came home Tuesday after his stay in hospice and the hospital. I hadn’t seen them. They have been eating in their apartment, and I have been reluctant to call, not knowing what sort of situation I might be interrupting. But after talking to Mae, a phone call to Ralph and Isabelle seemed in order.

   Isabelle sounded almost chipper. “I really slept good last night,” she said. “The night before, I hardly slept at all, but last night I slept the whole night through.”

   She said Ralph is still weak and spends most of the day in bed. He is, however, more aware and alert than he had been for a few weeks.

   “Did you hear that?” Isabelle asked me. “Linda is in here; she wants Ralph to sit in his chair for a while. Ralph said he doesn’t want to. So, Linda asked him if he has any bedsores; Ralph said no. And Linda said, ‘And you’re not going to get any on my watch. Let’s get you in the chair.’”

   Isabelle enjoyed the moment, and from the way she talked, Linda, and more importantly, Ralph enjoyed it too.

  

   About one o’clock, I went upstairs to pester Al. He has had a couple of empty hours in his days this week, and he’s getting antsy. Most days, Al goes out to lunch with Ken, a retired Army colonel, who bought Al’s house when Al moved here nine years ago. Ken had a colonoscopy earlier in the week and hasn’t been interested in going to lunch.

   The upset routine isn’t the only thing bothering Al. He will be ninety in February, and he is becoming more and more aware that he isn’t as young as he once was. In a few days, Ken will be ready to go out to lunch again, but Al isn’t sure how much longer he’ll be able to keep driving.

   “I’ve promised a friend of mine that I’d give him the car when I stop driving,” Al says from time to time. “And I am going to stop. Next week, I’m taking the car in to have them go over it and make sure there aren’t any problems. Then I’m going to give the damn thing away.”

   Next week has been months in the making, but, as of yesterday, it had still not arrived. Drugs, both licit and illicit, are also frustrating Al.

   “I got my pipe out today and something bad happened,” Al said a few days ago. “Usually, I go out on the porch and have toke, and it mellows things out. It takes me somewhere pleasant. But today, I felt awful all afternoon. I had a headache, and I had a hard time getting around. I felt like if I stood up at the railing I’d fall right off the porch. I’ve still got some marijuana upstairs, but I’m going to throw it away. I have to stop before I hurt myself.”

   Yesterday, Al was more concerned with the drugs he had obtained through prescriptions.

   “I went to the proctologist this morning,” he said. “He wanted to give me some pills. I told him I didn’t want them. Every time I see a doctor, they give me prescriptions. I’ve got pills all over the place. I don’t know what most of them are or what they’re for, and I’ve quit taking all of them. They don’t do anything anyway. If they did, with all the pills I’ve taken, I should be the healthiest man alive.”

   At dinner, Al announced that he hadn’t thrown his marijuana out. “I decided I needed to find out what would happen if I took another toke. It was just like the other day. I’m going to throw the rest of the shit away.”

  

   According to a news item on the radio yesterday, an Ohio man cannot get a driver’s license because he has been declared legally dead. But that’s not the weird part. “The trouble started years ago,” the woman reading the news said, “when the man left his wife and turned to alcohol.” Whether he became to ethyl or methyl, she didn’t say.

  

Notes from the Home - October 10, 2013

   Yesterday afternoon, while we were playing Tripoley in the activity room, someone walked by with a balloon emblazoned with “Welcome Home. A little later, I saw Linda, a caregiver who has become very close to Ralph and Isabelle. Before I got the question out, Linda smiled and said, “Ralph is home.” He is home from hospice, where he has spent the last week, and from the hospital, where he had spent the previous week.

   “Ralph and Isabelle are special people,” Linda said. “Isabelle looks so much like my grandmother, only taller. And Ralph looks just like my grandfather, only shorter. When I first walked into their apartment two years ago and saw them, I thought, ‘Oh my God.’ I just love them. They’re really good people.”

   The feeling is mutual. Isabelle and Ralph call Linda their angel.

  

   Linda’s boyfriend is Randy, one of the maintenance men here. It is a surprising match: Linda is quiet and demure; Randy is loud and boisterous. With his voice, Randy could have been the public address announcer at the Coliseum back in the days when the lions and Christians were doing battle. Perhaps it is a case of opposites attracting, but I’m betting there must be a quieter, more thoughtful Randy at home

   Monday evening as we sat around a table in the dining room getting the menus ready for Tuesday, Eleanor, Al and I edged ever closer to rowdiness. Ruth didn’t. The trouble started when Al said he was going to be cremated.

   “I don’t care what happens to the ashes,” he said. “They can toss them in the dump, for all I care.”

   “It doesn’t matter where your ashes go,” Ruth said. “The important thing is what happens to your soul.”

   No one uttered an “amen” in response, least of all Al, who will tell anyone who asks – and anyone who doesn’t ask, for that matter – that he’s an atheist and an agnostic. In fact, Al turned the conversation from the hereafter to what he was going to do when he got back to his apartment. “I’m going sit on the porch, smoke a cigar, drink a glass of wine and have me a toke.”

   “You know, it doesn’t matter where your ashes end up, it’s your soul that is important,” Ruth said. Not a soul seemed to care, and Ruth’s look of tolerant bemusement gave way to Puritan disgust.

   Al talked for a few minutes about how easy it is to get grass but how difficult it can be to get “good shit.” Then the conversation took a turn and headed toward towns with names of questionable propriety. A journey that quickly took us to Blue Ball and Intercourse. When we got there, Ruth decided it was time to end her social intercourse with us. She stood, uttered a tight-lipped, perfunctory “good bye” and went elsewhere. When and if she’ll rejoin our little menu crew remains to be seen.

  

   A contributing factor to Ruth’s icy demeanor Monday might have been the air conditioning in the dining room, which was in its refrigeration mode. When we finished the menus, I was anxious to get outside, where it would be warm. But it wasn’t, at least not very. It made me wonder if a year and a half in Georgia had turned me into a weather wimp.

   Tuesday, shortly before noon, I realized that though I may have lost some of my Nanookian toughness, my idea of cold is still colder than the natives’ idea of cold. I was circling the building, and the clouds moved quickly across the sky. There was a cool breeze that, from time to time, sent fallen leaves scudding along the pavement. The air was cool, pleasantly cool, and when the clouds weren’t in front of the sun, it was pleasantly warm, at least in the opinion of this Yankee. Johnny, the maintenance supervisor, had a different opinion.

   “It’s cold out here, you know,” he said when he came by in his Jeep Cherokee.

   “It’s not as warm as it has been, but it’s not too bad.”

   “Well, be careful and don’t stay out too long. It’s pretty cold.”

   Wednesday morning I was disappointed to discover it wasn’t as cool as I thought it would be outside. One of the nurse’s aides, however, was less than delighted to discover that it was as cool as it was.

   “I hate this cold weather,” she said with conviction as she dashed across the parking lot to her car.

  

Notes from the Home - October 2, 2013

   Fall has arrived in Georgia. When I rolled out of bed at six Thursday morning and opened the porch door, it was seventy-five in the room. Three-and-a-half hours later, it was seventy-four in here. The sun was shining, the sky was clear, the birds were singing, and a squirrel in the tree outside my window was looking around for food. The day was off to a promising start.

  

   Grandson Hayden turned three yesterday, and I received a couple presents. I called to convey my birthday wishes, and Beth gave the phone to Hayden and said, “Say, hi Grandpa.” And Hayden said, “Hi, Grandpa.” Of the million or so words in the English language, “Hi, Grandpa” are the loveliest.

   Then I asked Beth if they’d gotten the stuff I’d sent Hayden. The stuff included Hayden’s Book of Beastly Beasts and Wacky Wildlife, a collection of my goofy triolets, some illustrated with Russ’ drawings and others with pictures I shamelessly grabbed off the Internet.

   “He hasn’t seen it yet, but I bet that’s going to be his new favorite bedtime book,” Beth said.

   She still knows how to melt the old man’s heart.

  

   It had been over a week since Ralph came down for dinner. Then one day, Isabelle said he was feeling a little better and was much more alert. He’d even gotten their checkbook out and paid some bills. The following evening, Isabelle came down late and got her meal to go. She was having a hard time holding back the tears. She said Ralph had a rough day; his blood sugar was extremely high and he was having trouble keeping anything down. A hospice nurse was in the apartment with Ralph. The nurse had talked to a doctor and had given Ralph a couple shots. Isabelle was hopeful but also very concerned. Sunday morning, Ralph went to the hospital. Isabelle isn’t sure if he will ever return.

  

   Lorraine died last week. She and Bert moved to Covenant Woods six weeks ago or so. Every night this week, their son and daughter-and-law have had dinner with Bert. They have spent their time together laughing, and I can’t help but think of the weekend in San Antonio for Mom’s funeral.

   Last night, I overheard the son telling about a guy who went to Alaska to hunt and while there he accidently cut his leg. Rather than seek medical help, the man used duct tape to dress the wound and continued the hunting expedition. By the time the man returned to the lower-48, however, gangrene had set in, and his doctor told him the leg needed to be amputated. Unfortunately, the doctor amputated the wrong leg. When he realized his mistake, he quickly went ahead and sliced off the other one, too. When the anesthetic wore off, the man called his lawyer and told him he wanted to sue.

   “To be honest,” the lawyer said, “you don’t have a leg to stand on.”

  

   When Judy came to give my apartment its fortnightly cleaning, she closed the door and said she had to talk to me. It seems that Judy, who is white, babysat a friend’s son for several years. The lad is now sixteen, and his mother is quite concerned because he has fallen in love with a mixed-race girl.

   “She wants me to talk to him and get him to stop seeing her,” Judy said. “What should I do?”

   I told her, if the boy is sixteen, and the mother is really determined to squelch his desire, she should tell him the girl is the nicest, most wonderful young lady she’s ever met.

   “Going with someone of another race was a big no-no when I was growing,” Judy said.

   “But if all the things that were once no-nos were still no-nos we’d still be living in the trees.”

   “I guess,” she said with a complete lack of conviction.

   The next day at dinner, Eleanor told us about a new resident whose attitudes on race hadn’t changed since the 1950s. When an aide went to help her with something, the resident announced that she didn’t want any “damn blacks” helping her. Only, she didn’t say blacks. When Janet went to clean the woman’s apartment, she was told to leave. “I don’t want any damn [blacks] cleaning my apartment.” Janet left and Judy was sent in her place. The resident took one look at Judy, whose hair is kinky, and told her, “Get out! You look like a damn [black]. I want to talk to your supervisor.” Judy went and got Irene, the director of housekeeping. Unfortunately, Eleanor didn’t know what happened when the resident met Irene and discovered that she is black.

  

   This morning I was listening to the radio. The disc jockey, John Esworthy, who works for Minnesota Public Radio, was talking about a trio named for a city “famous for a team called the Mud Hens and as the hometown of Corporal Klinger on the MASH series. They call themselves the Toledo Trio. Hey, it’s classier than Ashtabula.” An Internet search revealed that Mr. Esworthy once worked for WKSU, the Kent State radio station.