Notes from the Home - July 1, 2015

     Good son that he is, Russ was at my door at six-ten Friday morning, ready to be his old man's chauffeur du jour. The time had come to have my Baclofen pump refilled, which involves a trip to the Emory Clinic in Atlanta, one hundred miles to the northeast. To make the  nine o'clock appointment we had to get on the road by the dawn's early light. The cool, overcast morning was ideal for rolling down the windows. And we rolled along merrily. The one traffic tie-up we encountered unsnarled moments after Russ' little, red Aveo arrived on the scene.
     Emory's rehabilitative medicine department is no longer in the hospital's main complex. Russ likes the new location, because it is right off the interstate and he doesn't have to navigate miles of surface streets to reach it.
     Maybe it is a sign of age, but the new place gets my vote because of the restroom, specifically the handicap stall. It is large enough that once I maneuver the wheelchair into it there is enough room left for me to do the things I need to do in order to do the thing I came to do. That isn't the case with the handicap stall in the other location.
     Our stay in the waiting room was short, just long enough to let everyone know how hopelessly 20th Century I am. There were eight of us seated there, and the other seven were caressing Smartphones or similar devises. My flip phone was embarrassed and refused to come out of my pocket.
     "Mr. Harris," a nurse said. Russ and I turned toward her, and she told us to follow her. Once she had shepherded us into the proper room, she reviewed my medications, took my temperature, my blood pressure and respiration. "Every thing looks good. The doctor will see you in a minute," she said and walked out.
     Dr. Milton was in a chatty mood. While pushing a sensor over the pump on my right side, just above the waist line, he asked where I lived before coming south. When I told him, Ashtabula, Ohio, he said, "So, you're an Ohio State fan." "No," I said. "I grew up in the Pittsburgh area, and all my sports loyalties remain there."
     He smiled and said he is from Detroit, but also a Pirates and Steelers fan. "It must be the colors. I like the black and gold." In 1979, he was a freshman at Wayne State. "We were all watching the World Series, and I was the only one rooting for the Pirates. Most of them were Tiger fans and thought I should be pulling for the Orioles, since they were the American League team. But my team won."
     Back to business: The doc stuck a needle through my skin and into the pump to retrieve the Baclofen that was still in there and then filled the pump it with a new batch. That done, he handed me a bunch of papers to take to the check-out window, where a young lady and I set the date - for my return visit that is.
     Russ steered the Aveo out of the parking lot barely forty-five minutes after we had pulled in. The quick in-and-out visits are great. But the long drives there and back are a bear.
    

     In the previous installment, I complained about sitting with Jim at dinner. According to Stacey, however, Al and I have mellowed Jim. "He used to be so mean," she said. "We [servers] were talking about it the other day. He's been so much nicer since you guys started eating with him."
     Jim faced a new challenge the other night: eating while Al discussed his bowels.
     "I had a movement this morning," Al said as we were eating. "Do you ever measure your movements, Jim? I do. This one was eighteen inches - one was nine inches, one six inches and one three inches. And yesterday I had one that was a foot long. I must be cleaned out now. How long is the large intestine?"
     An oh-good-god-man-can't-we-talk-about-something-else-anything-else-anything-at-all-besides-this look came over Jim's face. Al did tweek the topic, but only very slightly.
     "A few years ago, they put some sort of attachment on my toilet seat, so I could sit up a little higher and make it easier to get on and off the commode. Well, there's been an odor in my bathroom. I think it is coming from the toilet seat. I called Shirley and asked her to put in a work order for somebody to come and clean the damn thing. I don't know if she didn't put in, or maybe nobody wants to fool with it. I got tired of waiting, got a screwdriver and took the damn thing off.
     "I found out where the odor is coming from - all the caked-on shit. Between the toilet seat and the part they put on, everything was covered with dried shit. I spent an hour-and-a-half scraping it. And I still didn't get all off."
     It was vintage Al. I'm not sure Jim was ready.
     Saturday afternoon, Al called and asked me to come up. The monthly bills were getting the best of him. AARP wanted eighty-three dollars for its roadside assistance service, but Al no longer drives and doesn't own a car.
     "I called the sons of bitches, but I couldn't understand a goddamn word they said. I told them I'm ninety-one and can't hear shit. Then I told them to go to hell and hung up."
     One of these days, the computers that have replaced switchboard operators will be programmed to respond to "Speak up, goddamn it!" Until then, Al will be frustrated every time he phones a business or organization.With a little help from his friend, however, he was able get AARP to cancel the coverage.    
     "Now, look at this credit card bill. Master Card says I owe a hundred-fifty-some dollars. I don't owe any hundred-fifty-goddamned dollars. Where the hell they get that from?"
      "You're right, Al," I said after looking at the bill. "They owe you the money."
     The problem began a few months ago when Al sent Master Card a check for nearly forty dollars more than his balance. The excess amount showed up as a credit balance on the following month's bill, and Al paid it. The next month's bill, of course, had a credit balance twice as large as the previous month, and Al paid it in full. Which is how his credit balance reached its current level.
     "Let's call the bastards and tell them I want my goddamned money back."
      Rather than spending the afternoon talking to the goddamned bastards, I suggested Al spend his way back to a zero balance. He reluctantly agreed. Tuesday morning, Antoinette took him for his weekly grocery excursion at Publix.
     "I bought seventy dollars' worth of shit. I swiped the credit card through the machine, and it worked. But I don't know. I'll probably get a call."
     He hasn't yet, but he has given away about fifty dollars' worth of groceries. "I can't eat all that shit. If I don't give it away, I'll end up throwing it away."
      
    The sun blazed and the thermometer hovered notch or two above ninety when I went out after dinner one evening. Down in the duplexes, Janet sat smoking a cigarette in the shade of her carport. She saw me coming, got up and marched down the driveway.
     "Where's your hat?" she demanded.
     "I don't have one."
     "You don't have one? Well, you better get one."
     "I don't wear a hat in the summer."
     "Well, start wearing one. When sun is this hot and bright, your head gets hot and you'll have a stroke."
     "I'll look for one when I go to the store," I said, trying hard to sound sincere.
     "OK. I'm done scolding. How are you?"
     "I'm fine. Yourself?"
     "I shouldn't tell you this," she said looking down and shaking her head. "I'm having trouble with diarrhea. It's been almost constant."
     Once she had said that Janet immediately steered the conversation to things that delight her. She smiled and said she was going to plant a garden. She'd talked to the maintenance men, and they are going to pull out the evergreen shrubs the previous tenants had planted front of her half of the duplex. And they are going to contact the sprinkler people. The sprinkler in Janet's front yard sprays her kitchen window. It is aimed that direction in order to water the soon-to-be-removed shrubs. Until the spray is adjusted, she can't put the hummingbird feeder her grandson gave in front of the kitchen window, where she wants it.
     "It would be knocked around every time the sprinklers come on."
     Then she turned to squirrels. She is fascinated by way they get up on their haunches and sit like dogs begging for food. They remind her of meerkats.
     "I love all the little creatures," she said. "A few days ago, there were a squirrel and a bird - I don't know the names of all the birds here - sitting side-by-side on Dorothy's bird feeder. It was so cute, they didn't pay any attention to each other. They just sat and ate. I feed the squirrels every day."
     Neither of us went to the Town Hall meeting, where Roger and the staff talk about what a fine job they're doing, and the residents tell them how it could be done better. Rumor has it though, Roger asked the residents not to feed the squirrels. I didn't mention that to Janet.

     

Notes from the Home - June 17, 2015

     Al spent three nights at St. Francis Hospital and returned to Covenant Woods Friday. While he is loath to admit it, the stay seems to have helped. He is still coughing up blood, though not as much nor as frequently, he is getting around better and appears to be more alert.
     He came home with five or six pictures of his lung being probed. The doctors probably told Al what was going on in the pictures, but he has either forgotten or wasn't paying attentions. He stares at them, gets a disgusted look on his face and asks, "What the hell am I supposed to do with this? God damn doctors don't know what the hell they're doing."
     The highlight of his stay was Wednesday night's visit from Annie and her friend. Annie, who is the assistant activities director here, said they did stay passed the end of visiting hours. Whether they stayed as long as Al claims - two in the morning - or got as rowdy - "I thought they were going to throw us all the hell out the place," - is another story. But Al has enjoyed talking about it.
     Al had two or three conversations with the head nurse on his floor. The fellow had been a warrant officer in the military and was interested in Al's experiences. "I told him some of my stories, and he said I should write about them. I know just the guy to help me," Al said, nodding to me. Alas, getting Al to talk is easy, getting him to stay on topic is another. This morning he said he was going to start writing. He also said he was going out on his porch, smoke a cigar, pour himself a Yuengling, and, a little later, have a marijuana-laced cookie.

     Al and I have been sharing a table at dinner with Jim for the last six months. Jim is more than a few pounds overweight, has thick silver hair and a thick silver beard. During December, he lets the beard get longer and wears a red hat, looking and ho-ho-hoing in a very Santa-like way. And he likes to take pictures, lots of pictures. At Covenant Woods' social events, Jim is always snapping pictures of the residents, any family members who are there, and the staff people in the crowd. Afterward, he hops on his computer and prints all the pictures - at his own expense. A day or two after the shindig, he buzzes around the dining room, the lobby and the hallways giving the residents' the pictures he took of them.
     In those and a few other ways he is a kind and thoughtful man. There are times, however, when he is Scroogeian through and through. One evening, Kathleen came by as we were eating dinner and said hello to me. "No consideration at all," Jim said. "It didn't bother her one bit that she interrupted your dinner." Five minutes later, Bev stood by the table and sang a few bars of "Tomorrow," the song from Annie. Jim was livid. "Absolutely no respect," he said. "Doesn't she know any better?" I resisted the urge to ask, "Better than what?" And I didn't tell him I enjoyed the interruption.
     Fancying himself an efficiency expert, Jim continuously critiques the servers. He sits facing the room, while I sit facing the wall. But I always know what our server is up to. "Damn it. She's talking to Mary. Doesn't she know she hasn't taken our orders yet."Or, "We've got Myka tonight. She's so damn slow."
     His complaints aren't limited to the dining room staff. "Look at Marvin. He's come to dinner wearing a white T-shirt. That's being disrespectful to everyone in here." Hell, there are days Marvin is lucky to find the dining room. And it's not as if Jim gets all spiffed up for dinner.
     Yesterday, Elaine, who is 102, came in late and found her usual seat already taken and the table full. Katy, who was sitting with us, saw an empty seat at a nearby table and pointed Elaine in that direction. "She's so damn confused," Jim said. "I don't know why they let her come down here. She doesn't belong here."
     So, dinner is seldom a pleasant experience. I could find another table. But Jim was an Air Force pilot and he and Al often talk about their time in the military. Al enjoys that. Al also has the advantage of bad hearing: he is unaware of Jim's mumbled whines. My strategy is to keep Al talking as much as possible. Sometimes Al will hear just enough to know Jim said something and pretend to know what Jim said. Al replies with a comment on a random topic; that frustrates Jim and entertains me.

     It has reached the time of year in Columbus when we pay for the South's not-really-all-that-cold, wimpy winters.The forecast for this week and almost every week until late September: Too damn hot. The heat does provide job security for the maintenance men. Every time I see James, Randy or John, there is an air conditioner somewhere demanding their attention. I will say this, last year when my AC died, James quickly revived it, and I was most appreciative.   
    
    

   
          
     

My Busy Work

To get my lazy butt moving, I have been starting each day with the MadKane limerick contest and Three Word Wednesday. MadKane’s rhyme word for line 1,2, or 5 this week is “trust.” 3WW’s words for last week were “blemish” “erect” and “lopsided.” The words for this week are “dead” “hungry” and “threaten.”

Me Sin?

The fiery preacher’s past had a blemish

That became known. And so to replenish

His stock among gullible followers,

Who were such eager, willing swallowers

Of his balderdash, he stood proudly erect,

Quite confident they would never detect

The truth. He claimed the coverage was lopsided;

The press was unfair and should be chided.

His congregation said, “Yes, you are right.”

And he happily bedded some slut that night.

Two American Sentences

Blemish on my nose. I’m lopsided, can’t stand erect. 

It’s a bad day.

My computer is dead. I’m hungry.

I should threaten someone. But who?

Trust You?

Appalled when his wife fumed and fussed,

Shocked Arthur asked why she had cussed.

“You are seeing a tart.

Don’t deny it, dear Art.”

“OK, but don't I deserve your trust?”

Bought and Paid For

The would-be prez will ask your trust,

But his word is mere worthless dust.

That charming young bloke

Has been purchased by Koch,

And will do what he’s told he must.

Fessing Up

You know, so many times I just

Can’t seem to do the things I must.

Sad but true, I ignore

All my chores more and more.

I am no longer one you’d trust.

A Series of Unusual Phone Calls

(Al has been coughing up blood, some days more than others, for several weeks. Initially, the doctor thought the cause was a sinus infection and prescribed an antibiotic. The pills haven't helped. Last week, Al went back to the doctor, who did more tests and discovered Al had had a mild case of pneumonia recently. He now thinks that might be causing the bleeding.)

     At ten o'clock Tuesday night, the phone rang. After two nights of very little sleep, I had gone to bed early and was sleeping soundly. So soundly the ringing didn't rouse me, but the beeping and buzzing telling me someone had left a voice mail did. It took me a minute or two to realize the source of the beeping and buzzing had been the phone and not something out of a quickly forgotten dream. On my third attempt I correctly entered the password for my voice mail and was told, "you have one unheard message. First unheard message:
     "Hi, Tom, it's Penelope. Al called me and said he's been coughing up more blood and thinks he needs to go to the hospital. Can you go up and check on him?"
     That woke me up. Getting to Al's apartment in a timely fashion, however, was out of the question. On the best of days, it takes me fifteen minutes or more to get into my socks, shoes and a pair of pants. Rushing only slows me down. I called Al, but he didn't answer.
     Penelope is the Activities Director here. I was Plan B, I hoped. She must have called the desk, but Alisha had been on another line or had been away from the desk. Penelope surely left a message. My task was to make sure the message got through. I called the desk, John answered and said they were aware of the situation, had called 9-1-1, and Alisha had gone to Al's apartment and would stay with Al until the EMTs took him away.
     Alisha answered my call to let Al know I was thinking about him and wished him the best. I could hear him sputtering, stuttering and swearing in the background. A few minutes later, the Columbus Fire Department EMTs pulled up outside the B Building. By 10:30, Al was on his way to St. Francis Hospital.
     This morning, I stopped by the desk and asked if there was any word on Al. They had done a CAT-scan, run several tests and admitted him, Sarah said. I thanked her and went out to enjoy the overcast morning, Halfway through my second lap of the Covenant Wood's complex, the phone rang.
    "Well, good morning, Tom."
    "Good morning, Al. How are you feeling?"
    "I spent an hour-and-a-half in the emergency room. last night. Worst god-damned hour-and-a-half of my whole god-damned life."
     "What happened?"
     "I went in there wearing my jeans, a belt and two diapers. They put me in a bed and stuck about seven tubes in my arm - every fucking one of them in my left arm. It swelled up like a balloon; it's still god-damned swelled up. Then they covered me with a bunch of damn sheets. I couldn't move. I told them I had to urinate. They cut off some of my pants and part of the diapers. I still had a bunch of sheets on me, and I could hardly move. Then I couldn't find my penis and ended up pissing all over myself."
     "Sarah told me they admitted you."
     "Yeah, I'm in a room in the new part of the hospital. It took them twenty-five minutes to get me over here. I could have god-damned walked over here in ten. These god-damned doctors, all they want is your money,"
     "Are they treating you all right?"
     "They brought me breakfast earlier. The coffee was cold, the sausage didn't have a god-damned bit of flavor, and the cantaloupe and mush melon were so hard I couldn't chew the fucking things - and I had my new teeth in."
     The conversation continued in this vain for another ten minutes before Al said, "There I go, running my god-damned mouth. Tom, you're supposed to be my mentor. Why don't you tell me to shut the hell up? Penelope said she'd come see me today. Tell her, I want her to get me out of this god-damned place."
     Back inside, I found Penelope at her desk. As I thought she might have, she had gone to check on Al while he was in the emergency room. When I told her Al's opinion of the service, she rolled her eyes. "It turned out, the emergency room doctor he saw is Jim and Tillie's son-in-law. [Jim and Tillie live here.] Once he found out Al is from from Covenant Woods, Al got the VIP treatment."
     At twelve-ten, according to my microwave's clock, as I was searching the refrigerator for a luncheon treat, the phone rang.
     "Well, hello, Tom."
     "Hey, Al, what's going on?"
     "Some god-damned doctor came to see me this morning. You know what he wants to do?"
     "No, but you're going to tell me, aren't you?"
     "Tomorrow morning, he wants to run some god-damned tube down into my left god-damned lung to see what's going on."
     "That's good, isn't it?"
     "The blood isn't coming from my god-damned lung. They took a bunch of fucking pictures of my lung. There was a lot damage to my lung when I got blown all to hell in Vietnam. But the god-damned blood is coming from my god-damned head."
     "How do you know?"
     "Think about it. It's the only place it could be coming from. I'm 91-years-old, and I know my god-damned body. The blood is coming from above my god-damned eye."
     "So, how's everything else going?"
     "Some people came in here this morning and started asking a lot questions. I told them to get the hell out. They don't know what they're doing. I told them I want to go home. Then an orderly brought me lunch. I'm not god-damned hungry. Hell, I just ate two hours ago. Maybe I'll have the soup they gave me, but that's all."
     "Why don't you try to relax?"
     "Relax? What do you think I'm doing? I'm sitting here in a chair with my feet up on the bed."
     "Good. Aren't you supposed to elevate your feet has much as you can?"
     "That's because my god-damned feet swell. I'm just sitting here, not doing a god-damned thing, with my lunch on my lap. I keep telling them I want to go home, but they won't listen."
     "Anything I can do for you?"
     "Tell Penelope to find our what room I'm in. I don't know what god-damned room they've got me in."
     "She said she's going to come see you later. She'll know which room it is when she gets there. Look, I better let you go. You need some rest."
     "Thanks for putting up with me. I'll see you when they let me out of this god-damned place. Take care, you old rascal."
     

  
     
     
     
    
                 
    
      
    

Notes from the Home - June 6, 2015

      At six-thirty Monday morning, as I nursed a cup of joe and did a crossword puzzle on-line, there came a tapping, a gentle rapping at my door. My first thought on opening the door and seeing William was that he had intended to do his tapping on Richie's door. William gets the wrong door now and then when he is under the influence of Coor's Lite, which is most of the time.
     "Did you hear him last night?" he asked while making a series of anything but discreet cranial twitches toward Richie's apartment.
     "No."
     "I could hear him upstairs in my room. You didn't hear him? He was pretty damn loud."
     "I was awfully tired last night. I must have slept through it."
     "Just wanted to check on you, make sure you're all right. And remember, I wasn't over there last night."
     "OK."
     "I wasn't down here. You got that, right?" William said as he walked away.
     I got that, but that was about all I got. Richie is my next-door neighbor; William's apartment is two floors above mine. My hearing is in the normal range; William's isn't - isn't even close. Yet, he heard the alleged ruckus, and I didn't. And William and Richie are supposed to be best friends? Very strange, indeed. I might be wrong, I have been once or twice before, but I'm betting William had a beer-induced vision.
     Then again, maybe William was trying to pull a Richie and liar his way out of any trouble in the event I complained to the management. Several months ago, I was roused at four in the morning by the loud conversation the pair was having next door. Getting up wasn't the problem; I'm usually up by four-thirty, anyway. The hours before sunrise are so wonderfully peaceful: pleasant, unobtrusive music playing on the radio, which is set on low; the early birds chirping when they're not busy eating worms; a gentle breeze rustles the leaves; and some mornings there is the sound of gently falling rain.
     I didn't hear those soothing sounds that morning. They were drowned out by the voices of the beer-guzzling duo. I have no idea what they were talking about - neither did they, I'm sure - but they talked about it until seven o'clock.
     Around noon that day, I was in the lobby when William let out a "Hey, Tom," loud enough to be heard throughout Covenant Woods. It was a good time to let him know my feelings on his predawn tete-a-tete with Richie. And I did. William kept saying, "OK, OK; OK" and making keep-it-down gestures with his hands, but he never answered the charges.
     He did, however, run and tell Richie. And when Richie saw me after dinner that night, he said, "I wasn't there. I didn't get home until noon. William must have been talking to someone on the phone. OK?"
     "Whatever."
     "What's that mean."
     "That means, I don't believe you, but I'm not going to argue with you. Have a good night."
     I didn't believe him because there were two voices coming from his room that morning. One had the accent and tone of someone hurling imprecations at an umpire at Fenway Park. Richie's voice is the only one here that fits that description.
     All of which leads me to think William stopped by Monday morning to deny being there before Richie had a chance to.
    
     Al has been battling through some rough patches. The doctor recently gave him several new prescriptions. As he always does, Al read each list of possible side effects. Every one included the phrase "may cause dizziness."  At first, I thought the power of suggestion was the cause. But, I don't know, he's been talking about giving up marijuana. "I've been using the shit for thirty years. No telling what it has done to my brain."
     There are other possible culprits, too. "Look at all this," he said, waving his hand across the table where he keeps a variety of boxed and canned foods, some healthy, some not so healthy. "Read those packages. Everything on this table is loaded with vitamins and minerals. No one knows what all those vitamins and minerals are doing to our brains. I'm going to quit eating all this shit. The only things I'm going to eat are cake and ice cream, some candy and lots of chocolate."
     He was feeling much better Thursday. Antoinette, who does all sorts of odd jobs for the residents, took him to the bank, "I had to move some money around." Then they went grocery shopping.
     At one o'clock, my phone rang. "Tom, Al here. If you have a few minutes, come on up."
     I have far too many minutes these days and was at Al's door in a trice.
     "Tom, I did it again. I bought more shit than I need. I'm going to give some of it to you."
     "But . . . "
     "You've got to take some. If you don't, I'll end up throwing stuff away," he said as he handed me a package of salami, a package of pepperoni, a package of small sausages, a half pound of cheddar cheese, a pear, a large plum, a peach and some strawberries.
     "Now, do you need anything else? How about some blueberry muffins? Look at all this shit. I've got some Nutty Buddies. Don't you want some? I've been eating them since I was a kid. How about some Doves? It's dark chocolate, the stuff that's good for you. Some York patties? Some these little Reese's Pieces? Goddam it, I can't even give this shit away.
      "You know what the problem is, don't you? Antoinette, she's the problem. We're going through the store, and she starts putting things in the cart. 'Oh, you need this,' she says. I don't need all that shit."
     I thanked Al for the bag of foodstuffs on my lap, and headed to my apartment. Antoinette was in the laundry room, laughed when she saw me go by with the bag on my lap.
     "You're coming from Al's, aren't you?"
     "Yeah. He said you're the reason he always buys too much when he goes to the store."
     "Me? Al picks up everything he sees. I try to grab the stuff he doesn't need and put it back. But I have to be careful. If he catches me taking things out of the cart, he gets mad."

     Last week, Beth posted a picture of Hayden on Facebook. My four-year-old grandson was standing precariously on top of some sort of plastic easel with his hand on a smoke detector above a doorway in their house. It got me wondering if the Geneva hospital had somehow switched Debbie and my daughter with the daughter of another couple.
     It is said, we all grow up to be our parents. Well, I can't believe either Debbie or I, seeing Russ or Beth standing there as Hayden was, would have remained calm and snapped a picture before screaming, "Get down before you fall and break your neck!" I put the question to Russ, but he was no help. "I wouldn't have gotten up there in the first place," he said. Me either, if you want the truth.
     One of the delights of talking to Beth is hearing how she and Ken are allowing Hayden and MaKenna to be curious and find their own interests. Hayden has a lively interest in bugs. He often goes outside to look for them. When he finds them, he puts them in his pocket and takes them inside. Beth doesn't welcome the bugs in the house. But, at least when Hayden brings some in while we're talking on the phone, she doesn't get worked up about it, tell Hayden he'll die if one of the bugs bites him, or that all the bugs are going to make the house unlivable.
     Last week, Beth told me Hayden knows spiders aren't insects; they are arachnids. Someone, probably his parents, must be helping him turn his curiosity into knowledge. It makes me so very proud of Beth.
     Proud grandpa that I am, it pains me to say, Hayden doesn't know every thing. Not yet, anyway. Beth tells me Hayden has developed quite an interest in the moon. With that in mind, Beth found some pictures of the moon taken by the Lunar Rover. Hayden looked at the rocky lunar landscape and said, "Mom, that isn't the moon. The moon is made of cheese."     
    
     
    
     
    





      

Notes from the Home - May 25, 2015

     A few Sundays ago, the weather was so pleasant - sunshine, gentle breeze, temperature in the low seventies, the trees and lawns a vivid green - I couldn't stay inside. On my to the door I saw Francis.
     "Are you going out for some fresh air?" she asked.
     "I am and to work on my tan."
     Francis smiled, looked at me in the wheelchair and said she admired me. I shook my head and smiled.
     "You're such a nice guy."
     "I try," I said and went on my way, knowing I'm not all that admirable. But, compliments, even the undeserved ones, brighten the day. And I do try my best to be a nice guy.
     A few minutes into the ride, Homer, in his wheelchair, came up behind me. Homer is retired military. Unlike the vast majority of military retirees at Covenant Woods, Homer served in the Navy. He is in a wheelchair as the result of a spinal injury. He has never said whether the injury is service connected, and I never think to ask him until I get back to the apartment. Earlier in the year, Homer had surgery. He is now on oxygen, and his formerly strong voice has been reduced to a raspy whisper. He loves to talk, but these days his breathing becomes labored after he utters a sentence or two. It hasn't slowed him down.
     As we wheeled through the parking lots, Homer pointed to a Lincoln of a late-sixties or early-seventies vintage. A car from the era when the term "fuel economy" had yet to be coined, and the standard luxury car was a half-block long. Given its age, this one is in decent, though hardly pristine, condition.
     "I asked the guy how much he wanted for it," Homer said.
     "Whose is it?"
     "I don't know his name. He lives in C Building. I don't think he wants to sell it, but I'm going to see if I can talk him into it." As we got closer to the car, Homer added, "It needs a lot of work and a lot of TLC."
     Fran moved into one of the duplexes two years ago. She has a large side yard, extending from her carport to the Personal Care parking lot, about fifteen yards. I'm not sure the area was considered that duplex's side yard before Fran moved in. It was nothing more than a gentle slope with a few shrubs and a lot of grass. Fran had much of area roto-tilled and now spends the spring and summer months tending the garden she has created there.
     "Fran has such beautiful flowers," Homer said, as we passed the garden.
     "Well, she's out working in the garden every day."
     "I know. I told her once, if I saw her bend over one more time the temptation might be too much for me. I don't think she liked that."
     Like it or not, that's Homer. Stacey, one of the servers, said the other day, "Mr. Homer is a mess. Yesterday, he said, 'Stacey, sit on my lap and we'll talk about the first thing that pops up.'"  

     Janet, who came to America from England six months ago, was outside last Tuesday morning. We talked about the weather, which was quite nice. 
     "But it gets so hot in the afternoons," she said.
     "And, it's only going to get hotter, and more humid, too."
      "I'm going to buy a stand-up fan; about this high," she said, raising her hand to eye level. "I'm going to put it over there in the car port, at least it will keep the air moving. The neighbors probably won't like it. They'll say, 'What do you expect? She's an eccentric old English woman.' Well, I'll show them; I won't let them come over and stand by it." She took a moment to enjoy her joke before steering the conversation to more prosaic matters.
     On Thursday, Janet was upset with the cable service. "My TV and Internet are always going out. Do you have that problem?"
     "No. Maybe once in a while, if there's a storm. Otherwise, no."
     "Mine goes out all the time. I depend on the Internet to stay in touch with my friends back in England. And I like to have the TV on all the time. I don't watch it that much but I like having the background noise and the sound of other voices in the house. My daughter is going to check into satellite for me.
     "And the cable better not go out during a football game . . . . excuse me, during a soccer game. The Chelsea Football Club is my team. If it goes out during a soccer game, my neighbors are going to hear words they've never heard before. And that roof," she said pointing toward her half of the duplex, "you're going to see it rise, and it will keep on rising. Who knows where it will land. It might never be found."
     I haven't seen Janet since, but her half of the duplex appears to still be intact.

    Frank, a retired Command Sergeant Major, yelled for help Friday evening. I was in the bathroom at the time and tried gamely to get my pants up in short order. My balance and coordination being what they are these days, every thing I do takes longer than it used to. And when I am in a hurry and trying to move quickly, I end up being a poster child for one of Grandma's favorite adages: The faster I go, the behinder I get. Fortunately, by the time I got clothed, Mildred, who lives across the hall from me, had already called the desk. "I called, but I'm not sure what apartment the yelling is coming from."
     When Frank yells for help, he stands in the doorway to his apartment, where he can't be seen from the hall. I know this because I answered Frank's yells three or four times about a year ago, before Mildred moved. I told her who it was and that most likely Anna, Frank's wife, had fallen.
     I went down the all to tell Frank help was on the way. "I can't hear a goddamn word you're saying," he yelled. His reaction wasn't unexpected. After all, once a Sergeant Major, always a Sergeant Major. The last time I'd answered Frank's call for help, I overheard Anna tell him to pull the cord on the intercom box in the bedroom and talk to the person at the desk. "Goddamn it, I've got this all under control," Frank told her.
     Before Frank got too carried away, a couple nurses' assistants arrived to get Anna off the floor and back into bed. I went back to my apartment relieved that Mildred had heard Frank's calls for help. Most of Covenant Woods residents have difficulty hearing, and the other times I responded to Frank's yells, I was the only one who did. It's nice to know there is another set of ears on the hall.