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.
