Notes from the Home - October 14, 2012

   It has been a week of strangely memorable but unimportant encounters. Monday, I went to McDonald’s to get lunch. My original plan was to go to Subway, but the line was long, and my patience short. Business was brisk under the Golden Arches, too, but the long line was in the drive-thru lane. Inside, the place was nearly empty.

   A young lady took my order. If she wasn’t a teenager, she was an extremely well-preserved twenty-something. Monday must have been the first time she had been allowed to fly solo on the cash register. She stood up straight, in the way people do when they are trying to stand up straight. Her shoulders were back, and her fingers were on the register, ready to put my order into the system the moment I responded to, “May I take your order?”

   She was very careful as she pressed the register’s keys, and there was a hint of uncertainty in everything she did. She asked all the required questions: Did I want to make it a meal? Would that be for here or to-go? Between questions, she’d look at that checklist in her mind and put an “X” by the step she’d just completed, and then see what she was to do next. After handing me my change and receipt, she assembled the order. It wasn’t much, just a chicken sandwich and a milk shake.

   “There you are, sir, everything in one bag,” she said, setting the order on the counter. She also served up a wonderful smile that said, “Tada!” “Thank God I didn’t mess that up,” and “I think I’m getting the hang of this,” all at once. The smile on that girl was so very familiar. It took a while, but on my way back to Covenant Woods, I realized that her proud smile is the same proud smile Bethany flashes. And then I smiled a big smile, too.

   Tuesday morning, while circling Covenant Woods, I spotted William. “Good morning,” I said, and he grunted. That was all. Strange, most of the time William is the guy whom the phrase coiner had in mind when he came up with “motor mouth.” Maybe it had something to do with me calling to complain about him and Richie getting boisterous Saturday night. William went down the path to Piggly-Wiggly, and I continued my inspection of the grounds. Twenty minutes later, as I was making another trip through the parking lot behind Building C, William was coming back.

   “Hey, Tom,” he said in his loud, friendly voice. “How are you? Getting your exercise, I see. We’ve got to get you some gloves and a hat. It’s going to start getting pretty cold here.”

   Why the sudden transformation from sullen and standoffish to hail fellow well met?  Was he holding the reason in his left hand? Was the answer in the plastic grocery bag straining to hold the 24-pack of Coors? I bet it was.

   That night at dinner, Evelyn came over, put her hand on my shoulder and said to Corrine, who was sitting across the table, “I love this man.” The man shuddered. Evelyn is temperamental, opinionated, vengeful and doesn’t handle disappointment well. She and William no longer see each other except to argue. And argue they did the other night in the lobby. According to usually reliable sources, a resident who has been here only a short time became so concerned he called the police. Three of Columbus’ finest answered the call.

   I need not have worried. After listing my strong points – there were only two of them: a sense of humor and a pleasant smile – Evelyn talked about her husband.

   “He was a wonderful. He was the kindest, most considerate person I ever knew,” she said. “I’ve been a widow for forty years, and I’ve never met his equal. I’m not looking for another man, because I’ll never find another man like him.”

   Sometimes it’s a relief to be found inadequate.

  

   Hayden spent Tuesday at Grandma’s, and Debbie was kind enough to invite me to Skype and watch him eat breakfast. Hayden was in his high chair, as he always is when I Skype to Orofino. But the shadows were more pronounced Tuesday, and I wasn’t able to see what Hayden was wearing. My concern for fashion being what it is, it didn’t make any difference until Beth called the next afternoon.

   “Did you notice the shirt he had on?” she asked.

   “No. The light wasn’t very good.”

   “It was one of the shirts you got him for his birthday,” she said. “He looks so cute in it. And his favorite book is one you sent him a couple months ago; the alphabet book with the tools.”

   There was one very happy grandpa in Columbus, Georgia, that afternoon.

   After I talked to Beth, I went to the dining room and played Name That Tune. All the music was from the fifties and sixties. I was first to name seven of the songs and finished in second place. Jim, who was a disc jockey during those years, was the first to name twelve tunes and claimed the title. He probably would have been first every time if he hadn't opted to give the rest of us a chance. And I owe my second-place finish to Annie. She works in the activities department and couldn't play, but she did blurt out some answers. There was no sense wasting them.

  

   I saw all of Covenant Woods for the first time Friday afternoon. Every third day or so, Penelope prints up “Town Talk,” a flyer with the schedule of upcoming activities. A resident whom I’ve never seen distributes them, slipping one under the door of each apartment. But she was unable to make her appointed rounds Friday, and I was asked to pinch hit.

   I quickly realized that once you’ve seen one Covenant Woods’ hallway, you’ve seen them all. That’s hardly surprising, but it can be darn confusing. I’d come to the end of one hallway, look down the next and wonder if I had been there or not. Then I’d nonchalantly meander into it to see if there were any “Town Talks” sticking from beneath the doors. I haven’t heard any complaints yet, but chances are I missed a few people and gave two to a few others.

   I also had a writing job this week. Eleanor, who lives in one of the cottages, asked me to write a limerick to thank Roger, the general manager, and Johnny, the maintenance supervisor, for getting rid of tree stump in her yard. I was on my way to deliver my literary masterpiece Saturday when I saw Eleanor in pursuit of Buster, her yappy Chihuahua. Once Buster was corralled, I gave Eleanor the limerick. She seemed pleased and said she was going to present to Roger and Johnny on Monday. I suppose I’ll find out then if they appreciated it.

   Back inside, Irene, the head of housekeeping, slapped me with another speeding ticket. The joke has been going on for a few weeks, and I have accumulated over a thousand dollars in fines.

   “But I’m a poor retired guy on a fixed income,” I said.

   “I don’t care. You were speeding.”

   “But I’ve been doing community service,” I said. “Doesn’t that count for something?”

   “What community service?”

   “I delivered Town Talk and wrote a limerick for Eleanor.”

   “OK. But don’t let me catch you speeding again.”

   It was a good week. The best I’ve had here.

  

  

  

Notes from the Home - October 7, 2012

   It pains me to say this, but Susan, my sister-in-law, Alabama native and a rabid fan of Crimson Tide football, might be right. On more than several occasions this summer, she had the temerity to interrupt my incessant whining about the Georgia heat and humidity to tell me, “Come November, you’ll be freezing.”

   “Ha,” I said.

   Myron Cope used to say, “Double Oy!” Well, I said, “Double Ha! Triple Ha! Quadruple Ha! And for good measure, Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

   Sixty-some winters north of the Mason-Dixon haven’t been wasted on me. I know cold, and I’m sure there is nothing in west Georgia weather that comes even close to cold. Back in Bethel Park, when it got up to forty in February, I’d take off my jacket on the way home from Memorial School. “Put your jacket on,” Mom would say, “you’re going to catch your death of cold.” “Ha!” I said, and went coatlessly on my way, never once catching my death of cold.

   At dinner Wednesday, Catherine played the part of Mom.

   “I see you’re going to the concert tomorrow,” she said.

   “Yep, I am.”

   “Well, it’s at Lakebottom Park, and it will be outdoors,” Catherine said in that tone of exasperated patience mothers have when talking to a child who should know better.

   “I know.”

   “It’s starting to cool off at night. You better wear a sweater or a jacket,” she said.

   “I will dress appropriately,” I assured her. “A long-sleeve shirt should do,” I thought as Catherine went back to her table.

   Thursday morning, the thermometer bottomed out at sixty degrees. In Ashtabula, sixty degrees is a respite. In the fall, it is a respite from the heat; in the spring, it is a respite from the cold. When I slid the sliding door open Thursday morning, sixty degrees was chilly. Chilly enough that as I went out for my morning constitutional, I plucked my jacket from the hook where it has been hanging since I arrived here in March. I didn’t intend to wear it, but I thought it would make Mom happy as she watched me from the other side if I used a little foresight and took the jacket along just in case.

   Fifty feet beyond the door, I donned the jacket. Humiliation followed. Randy, one of the maintenance men, spotted me and yelled, “You cold?”

   “Just a little chilly,” I said.

   Randy was wearing the standard issue blue T-shirt that Covenant Woods provides its maintenance men. He didn’t appear uncomfortable and didn’t have a jacket lying nearby. When he was younger, Randy said, he spent a winter in Wisconsin installing drywall in an unheated building.

   “When I was up there, they asked if I wanted to go ice fishing,” Randy said. “I told them, ‘Hell no.’ But if they asked me now, I’d go.”

   “You fool,” I thought.

   It was at that moment I realized I had, in just six short months, become a weather weenie of the first order. Randy, born and bred in Georgia, in a T-shirt on the first really cool day of fall, was thinking of going ice fishing on Lake Superior. And there I was – a man who had stood on Lake Erie’s shore countless times, ignoring the wind in my face as I gazed at the frozen expanse that stretched to Canada – trying to remember where I put my gloves and hat.

  

   I thoroughly enjoyed the concert at Lakebottom Park. It’s called Lakebottom because the ground there was once at the bottom of a lake. A few people said they knew people who remembered when the lake was there, but no one seemed to recall when it was drained. Judging from the height of the trees, I imagine all those who once frolicked in the lake are now frolicking in the hereafter.

   The event was called Swing into Fall, and the group doing the swinging was the Cavaliers Orchestra, which, according to the program, has been playing big-band music in and around Columbus since 1946. As she was getting me off the bus, Annie asked if any of songs that night had a special meaning for me. Dad controlled the radio in our house, and the music he loved was from the Big Band Era. Everything the Cavaliers Orchestra played was familiar, but song that brought back memories was “Over the Rainbow.”

   “Me too,” Annie said. “When I was a kid, we watched The Wizard of Oz every year.”

   We also watched the movie every year, but that’s not what I was remembering. I was thinking of the year Russell got The Wizard of Oz soundtrack album for Christmas. He was four or five at the time, and he played that record constantly for several years. As he listened, Russ drew hundreds of pictures of Dorothy, Toto, the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, the Cowardly Lion and the Wicked Witch of the West. There is nothing more fascinating than watching a fascinated child. They are moments I will never forget.

  

   Friday, we went to Wild Animal Safari. We each received a brown bag full of food for the animals. Then we got on an old school bus from which the glass in all the windows had been removed. As we drove through the park, the deer, pigs, giraffes and other herbivores came up to the bus, hoping to get fed. We were warned that the giraffes stick their heads in the windows and will grab the food bags from the unwary. We were all wary, and no one lost their bag of food.

   After the tour we had a picnic lunch. There was a family from Pakistan at a nearby table, and Helga regaled them with stories of her time in Pakistan. Name a place – anyplace – and Helga has been there. Or so she says. In my less kind moments, I think about getting a group together to discuss a fictitious place while Helga is nearby and seeing how long it takes her to jump into the conversation and tell us of her experiences there.

  

   Interesting goings on at dinner last night. Sue, who is in the process of moving out, said her “ex from Alabama” would be coming over Sunday to give her a hand with a few things. “Ex from Alabama,” I thought. “Does she have an ex from every state?” It was difficult, but I resisted the temptation to make a smart-ass remark. And in time, it all became clear; she also has an ex here in Columbus, and she told us the story of their wedding.

   Sue and her ex from Columbus were seventeen when they crossed the river to Alabama in order to wed. The trouble was, a seventeen-year-old needed a notarized statement of parental consent in order to get married in Alabama. Not wishing to tell their parents, Sue and her soon-to-be husband  came up with a plan. Sue’s dad was a notary, and he worked for the city. One weekend, Sue walked off with her Dad’s key to the government center, and she and her beau went downtown and let themselves in. They made their way to her dad’s office and, using his seal, notarized their forged statements of parental consent. Then they went to Alabama and got married. In Georgia at the time, you could not attend a public school if you were married. So the newlyweds kept quiet about their change of status until the end of the school year.

   “I’ve always been daring,” Sue said. “Daddy never asked how we pulled it off. But he had to know.”

   While Sue was telling her tale, a little scene was playing out in the dining room. Evelyn, a cantankerous, opinionated woman of ninety-one has sat at the same table every night since I got here. Most of the people who also sat at that table, however, have gone elsewhere. Evelyn must not like her current tablemates. Last night she settled in at the table where Jim usually sits. Jim, I would guess, is ten or fifteen years younger than Evelyn, but every bit as cantankerous and opinionated.

   Jim was a few minutes late, but the woman who eats with him every night – I don’t know if she is his lady friend or just a friend who happens to be a lady – was in her usual spot, and the seat Jim normally occupies was empty. When Jim came in the dining room, he went directly to the salad bar, turned to go to his table, spotted Evelyn there and went instead to the table where Evelyn has been eating lo these many months. Not a word was spoken, but I think a message was delivered.

  

   I lodged my first complaint last night. About ten-fifteen I was roused from slumber by the town drunks – William and Richie – who were in Richie’s room next door. I tried to ignore their conversation, which consisted mostly of the “F” word, but after a half hour I called the desk. Seconds before the aide arrived to break up the party, William said, “See you tomorrow, buddy boy.” Then I heard the aide tell them that needed to keep it down, that there had been complaints. William left without complaint, quiet returned and I went back to Dreamland.

  

Notes from rhe Home - September 29, 2012

   My eyes weren’t bright, nor was my tail bushy early Tuesday morning. But I was up and about and did my good deed for the day ere the sun came up. A few minutes after five, as I worked an online crossword puzzle, there was a noise at the door. It sounded like the knocker, but it couldn’t be, not at that hour. I figured the guy who delivers the Ledger-Enquirer must be early. He often startles me when he puts the plastic bag with the paper in it on the door handle.

   But a moment later, I heard the noise again. It was the knocker. I went to the door, opened it and beheld Frances in her nightgown and robe. I didn’t realize it was Frances until she introduced herself. My two previous encounters with her were occasioned by her calls for help. Both times she had fallen face-down in her apartment and was unable to get up. This morning, however, she was on her feet.

   “I locked myself out,” she said. “Can you call the desk and ask them to send someone with a key?”

   I made the call, and we waited in the hall. She said her legs were bothering her.

   “Look at this,” she said, lifting her robe to her knee and showing me the large sores on her right calf. The left leg didn’t look quite so bad.

   “I’ve got a folding chair in the room, do you want me to get it so you can sit down?”

   “No. Someone will be here in a few minutes,” she said. “I was restless and decided to walk around a little, but I forgot my keys. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

   “I’ve been up since four,” I said.

   “Couldn’t sleep?”

   “I get up between four and five every morning.”

   “What time do you go to bed?”

   “Eight-thirty; nine.”

   “Seven hours, that’s pretty good,” she said. “My legs are so sore. I don’t know why the Lord does this to me.”  She was quiet for a minute and then said, “He must have his reasons. The Lord has been good to me, and he’ll get me through this.”

   As if sent by the Lord, an aide bearing a passkey came down the hall at that very moment. She looked at Frances’ leg and said, “Where are your bandages?”

   Frances said she didn’t know. But she was in good hands now, and I went back to my crossword puzzle. Later that day, someone told me Frances has lupus.

  

   About six weeks ago, I asked Penelope, the activities director, if there were any jobs around the place that I might be able to do. She said she’d think about it. As she thought, she thought up an idea for an Antiques Roadshow, Covenant Woods style. The residents with items they were curious about would give them to me, and I would comb the Internet to find out what I could about them. The residents held up their end of the bargain, and I did what I could to hold up mine. I was no good at all as an assessor, but I did find out some interesting stuff.

   For instance, in looking for information on a pewter coffee pot, I discovered that coffee once made monarchs nervous, and not because they drank too much of it. They were afraid of what was going on in the coffee houses. One way to stifle dissent, they thought, would be to outlaw coffee. And the United States turned from tea to coffee during the War of 1812, when tea was in short supply and very expensive. After I shared this information, however, I was told the coffee pot was a wine dispenser.

   Penelope had a hairpin holder, which I would have mistaken for a salt shaker, had she not told me. Stumbling around the Internet, I learned that in the early years of the Twentieth Century, hairpins were seen in some quarters as dangerous and subversive weapons. An effort was made around 1918 to regulate their length. The fear was if hairpins got too long they would be used by suffragettes to attack their enemies.

   This week, I spent a couple afternoons behind the computer in Penelope’s office. She was on vacation, and Annie, who works with her, said there were a couple things I could do if I wanted. Penelope and Annie share the office with Irene, the director of housekeeping, and as I typed the daily schedules for October, several women came by see Irene. They asked what I was doing, and when they found out, they’d say, “Oh, that’s so sweet.” After all that sweetness, it’s a wonder I didn’t leave the office with a face covered with zits and a head too big to get out the door. But nothing beats the feeling of being useful, and I’m grateful for the opportunity to be of use.

  

   Al has been down to see me twice this week. He is determined to get rid of every nonessential item in his apartment.

   “I don’t need this shit,” he said. “The doctors say I could go any day.”

   I don’t think the doctors mean that Al’s demise is imminent, only that a man of eighty-eight is closer to the end than the beginning. His niece, who lives in New England somewhere, wants to come down with tape recorder and get Al to tell his stories.

   “She wants to publish them,” Al said. “But no one would be interested.”

   As Colonel Potter would say, “Horse pucky!” I encouraged Al to go ahead with the project, and if there is anything I can do to help him and his niece with it to let me know. But, unless his niece uncommonly persuasive, I don’t think Al will do it. And that’s too bad.

  

   Another chance to be of use came my way this morning. Joe has heart problems and has been looking for an activity he can handle. The son of one of the Covenant Woods residents teaches Tai Chi, and he gave Joe a DVD to introduce him to it. Joe popped the disc into his laptop and nothing happened.

   Because I waste more time in front of the computer than in front of the television, there is a widely held misconception here that I know something about how a computer works. So Joe called and asked if I could help him. It turned out I was able to. A click-click of the mouse here, and a click-click there and the video was rolling. The myth of my competence lives on.

  

  

  

Notes from the Home - September 18, 2012

   I’m not sure what Al is trying to do to me. Our paths crossed in the hall yesterday. He spotted a bench, said he was tired and sat down. He asked me if I had a few minutes to bullshit. I did, and he proceeded to quiz me about my condition.

   “Can you get up?” he asked.

   “I’ve got a walker in the apartment,” I told him. “I use it when I need to go to the bathroom. And every other day or so, I use it to go out on the porch and water my plant.”

   “How far can you walk with it?” he wanted to know.

   “Not very,” I said. “Across the room, not much farther.”

   “We’ve got to get you up and walking again.”

   A woman came by, and Al said “hello” to her. There was nothing unusual about the woman. She was nicely dressed, and her gray hair neatly coifed. She used a cane but stepped out more smartly than most people here. She conversed with gusto and didn’t seem to have difficulty hearing what Al said. I would have guessed she was in her late seventies. I would have been wrong. She is 101. For many years, I have thought of Alma, a retired Ash/Craft secretary, as the most youthful old person I’ve ever known. But no more. Even Al, a young whippersnapper of eighty-eight, is in awe of the woman’s energy and admitted he couldn’t keep up with her.

   Al said his niece has been asking him if he’d tell her all his stories if she came down. She wants to publish them.

   “I talk too much as it is,” he said. “And nobody would be interested in them.”

   “I’d be interested,” I said. “I think you should tell her all your stories. It would be a fascinating book.”

   He mumbled something and shifted the subject back to my ailments.  Al is a voracious reader, and he has a stack of newsletters from the Harvard medical school.

   “If I find anything about your problems, I’ll pass it along,” he said. “They say now that red wine is good for you. Red wine and black coffee. I read an article that said if you drink three cups of black coffee and two glasses of red wine a day you can live damn near forever.”

   “I’ve got the black coffee covered,” I said.

   “Don’t you drink, Tom?”

   “Not much these days.”

   “Dammit, Tom, you don’t know what you’re missing. You’ve got to come up to my room some time. I’ve got beer, wine, some scotch, a little whiskey and a bottle of gin that I’ve had for six years. And if you don’t want that, we can smoke some marijuana, or I can give you some marinol. It will take you to the most wonderful, peaceful place. But you won’t remember it when you come back down.”

   That’s when I began to wonder. Al began the conversation by asking if I could walk at all and what could be done to restore my ability to walk. And he ended it by encouraging me to drink more. Should a genie grant those two wishes, someday I’ll walk into his apartment, but I won’t be able to walk out.

   On my way to dinner last night, I spotted Al coming out of the activity room with a glass of red wine.

   “What’s going?” I asked.

   “A reception for the new residents,” he said, holding up his glass. “You ought to get yourself some.”

   I did.

   Occasionally all this leads to a cartoon moment, with Al hovering around one ear, urging me to drink more, while Catherine is on my other shoulder, telling me to thirst after righteousness. She came by this morning ostensibly to give me the phone number of her dentist. But her real purpose, I think, was to give me a copy of Jesus’ Claims – Our Promises: A Study of the “I Am” Sayings of Jesus. “You’re going to need the Lord,” she said.