Notes from the Home Sept. 2, 2012

   Back in the day – back in the day when no one said back in the day – Covenant Woods would not have been a retirement community, it would have been an old folks’ home. Most days retirement community seems appropriate. But there are days – last Saturday, for instance – when age and the problems associated with it are all too apparent

     Shortly after one that afternoon, I blew the dust out of my mailbox  and started back down the long hallway to the B building, only to find myself behind a slow moving gentleman whom I don’t remember having seen before. He must be well up in his eighties. He uses a walker, and he is blind.

   There are six sets of windows, spaced twenty feet apart, in the hallway. Between each set of windows there is a bar about hip high. The man held the bar with his right hand and guided the walker with his left as he went down the hallway. When he reached the end of the bar, he stopped, found the windows, and then, tapping the windows as he went, proceeded until the windows ended. Then he found the bar and used it until he reached the next set of windows.

   The hallway opens into a small lounge area. When he got there, the man stopped, fiddled with his walker to get it pointed in the right direction.  Then he walked until he ran into the opposite wall, directly in front of the elevator button, which he pushed. When the elevator arrived, he got on.

   While I was cruising the parking lot a day or two later, I saw Annie, who works with Penelope, the activities director. I asked her about the man. She said he recently lost his wife. Besides using the walls to guide him, she said he counts steps to stay oriented. He was quite an inspiration.

   A little later Saturday afternoon, around quarter past four, I was sitting at my computer, bored and uninspired, when I heard a woman yell, “Help, I’ve fallen.” It was Frances. She must have fallen as she was about to leave her apartment; her door was open, and she was lying face down in the doorway. A woman in the hall was talking to the lady in the apartment across from Frances’, urging her to call the front desk. But the woman in the apartment was having difficulty finding the number. I’ve got the number in my cell phone and alerted the people up front. “Oh, Lord, why did you let this happen to me?” the woman asked as she waited for help. The hall filled up with those wanting to help and with those merely curious. When the aides arrived, I left in order to stay out of the way. But I did see one of the aides a little later; she said Frances wasn’t hurt.

   Heading up the hallway to dinner that afternoon, I met up with Al. He said he’d noticed a small pool of blood beneath the skin on his penis.

   “I don’t know what caused it. I don’t have any trouble urinating,” he said and then added, “I haven’t had a hard-on in twenty years.”

   He used words “penis,” “urinating” and “hard-on” several times each as we walked to the dining room. He never used the common slang terms for “penis” or “urinating.” But a hard-on was always a hard-on, never an erection. I’m not sure what that says about Al. And I’m not sure what noticing such things says about me.

   For all his talk about his health problems, I don’t think eighty-eight year old Al is afraid to die. But he is afraid he might have to live without the ability to do so many of the things he is able to do now. He’s led a full life. “I’ve been around the world – twice,” he says, “And done everything I wanted to do.” Al isn’t concerned with life after death: he isn’t hoping to go to heaven, and he doesn’t fear going to hell. “I’m a hundred and eighty-five pounds of chemicals. That’s all,” he says. “Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.” Hell to Al would be outliving his ability to enjoy life.

  

  

  

  

Notes from the Home - August 14, 2012

   On our way to Target, Russell talked about life in the audio/video department of Barnes & Noble.

   “A guy came in yesterday; said he’d recently moved into a retirement-community-slash-assisted-living place,” Russ said. “You know, an old man.”

   “Whoa,” says I. “A person isn’t old just because he recently moved into a retirement-community-slash-assisted-living place.”

   Russell took his eyes off the road just long enough to shoot me a get-over-it-you-old-fart glance before going on with the story. Russ and a woman were working at the counter, but the man insisted on speaking to Russ, and he insisted on speaking to him in a corner, away from the other customers and staff. The man said he had become friends with a woman at the retirement community, and she had invited him to her apartment a few times to watch movies. To reciprocate, the man had come to Barnes & Noble the day before and purchased a movie. A comedy; his lady friend likes comedies. That evening, the woman came to the man’s apartment, he slipped the movie into the VCR, they got ready to laugh, and then…

   “You have to sit through all the commercials,” the man told Russ. “But the movie finally started. And what do you think we heard when it did? A whole lot of moaning. That’s what we heard.”

   And, according to the man, it was all downhill from there: the moaning continued, foul language filled the air and everywhere you looked there were actors and actresses in dishabille. The movie was Bridesmaids.

   “I want to return it. And I want to know how I can find a decent movie. I don’t want a movie with a lot of moaning, foul mouthed, naked people.”

   Russ suggested he try the Marx Brothers or maybe a Cary Grant comedy. But the man, not wishing to be an old fogey among the old fogies, said he was hoping to find something more current. Russ pointed out that the film he was returning was the director’s cut of an R-rated movie, something he might wish to avoid in the future.

  

   Back at Covenant Woods, Al was waiting for the elevator as I headed to my apartment. He asked me if I had time to go up to his room and visit for a bit. If there is anything I have in abundance, it’s time, and I followed him to his apartment.

   An eighty-eight-year-old retired Army lieutenant colonel, Al fought in World War II, Korea and Vietnam, where his leg was injured. “It got all blown to hell,” Al said. “I was working for Westmorland at the time. And when I saw him in South Carolina a few years later, I really gave him hell.” With steel rods for bones and screws for ligaments, Al gets around as well and stands as tall as many men twenty years his junior.

   Al talked about growing up here in Columbus; a kid who preferred to be alone, who read poetry and spent a lot of time trying to make sense of the world. As soon as he had his high school diploma in hand, Al enlisted. After basic training, he went on to Officer Candidate School and from there he was stationed in Virginia. But he complained mightily about not being sent overseas. Eventually, perhaps to stop his carping, the Army obliged and sent him to join the fight in Europe.

   For the last few days, Al had been having balance issues. A day or two earlier, he fell in his apartment and had to struggle to get up. He’d gone to the doctor, but Al worried that the medication changes the doctor prescribed amounted to little more than tinkering. Then Al pointed to his forehead and said, “This is going too. I can’t remember shit anymore.”

   Al said he asked me up because he’s convinced he’s an old soldier who is about to fade away, and before he does he wants to find a good home for the things cluttering his apartment. “Take whatever you want, Tom,” he said, opening the refrigerator. “I’ve got three Ding-a-lings [Yuenglings] in here. You can have them.” I took a couple three-pound dumbbells, but said no to the stationary bicycle – I have my own balance issues – and countless other proffered items. But Al wasn’t through. Before I left he filled a bag with bite-size Dove bars, Reese’s cups, caramels, a jelly-filled pastry and a gingerbread man. I felt like a kid going home after a visit with the grandparents.

   I saw Al last night at dinner. If his health is declining, it isn’t obvious. And his voice was as strong as ever. “I gave the exercise bike to Ralph,” he said. “I haven’t been able to get on the damn thing for years.”

   And this afternoon, as I was touring the parking lot, Al called to say he some more stuff he wanted to bring down to my room. He brought me some sort of exercise devise with two pedals that you can spin with your hands or feet. I’ve used it a couple times today and used the weights three times. Come morning, I’ll either jump out of bed with the greatest of ease or be too sore to move. But regardless, I’m sure Al will be the same old contrarian he’s always been. He’s the crusty old guy I want to grow up to be.

  

   Sue, who came to Covenant Woods a few weeks after I did, told us recently that she is planning to move out. She has been having trouble with her house and her dogs. She can’t sell the former and she can’t silence the latter. It was the dogs that forced the issue; several of the people on her hall have complained about the barking. Covenant Woods has offered to let her move into one of the duplexes for the same rent she is paying for her apartment. Sue was tempted, but she was concerned that her new neighbors might not appreciate the dogs any more than the old ones did.  Arthritis is was also a problem. Sue has arthritis in her feet and the daily suppertime trek to the main building, though short, would be painful. So the plan now is to rent her house – there is a prospective tenant ready to sign a lease – and Sue will move into the small cottage on the property.

   It seemed like a great plan until Sue started talking about her health problems. The reason she moved to Covenant Woods she said, was because she was alone and fell several times, and there were a number of occasions when she had no idea what was going on. Once she was out of it for over twelve hours. She says she’ll need someone to check on her at least once a day, but she isn’t sure who that someone will be. Nonetheless, she is moving ahead with her plan. Her ex-husband stayed with her last week to help her get ready to move.

   “We’ve been divorced since 1983, so we’ve put a lot of things behind us,” she said. “But last week was enough to remind me why we split up in the first place. All he did was sit on the couch and watch TV. He’s got heart problems, but he is a very controlling person.”

  

   My gender-identification issues continue unabated – people are still having problems identifying my gender when they speak to me on the phone. I had a doctor’s appointment last week and arranged to be transported on the Covenant Woods bus. About 6:30 that morning, the phone rang, and the man on the other end said, “This is just a friendly to Mr. Harris that he needs to be in the lobby by 8:15.”

   “Thank you,” I said.

   “You’re welcome, ma’am. And have a nice day.”

Hansel and Gretel: Man and Wife

  What if, instead of siblings, Hansel and Gretel had been married twenty years when they went into the witch's kitchen?

   GRETEL: Hansel, my hapless husband, we must do

   something lest Witchy cooks us in a stew.

  

   HANSEL: Stew! That’s great! Carrots, potatoes and beef

   served after a nice wine aperitif.

   As a cook, Witchy has appealing appeal,

   I’m ready right now to have a big meal.

  

   GRETEL: Hansel, you idiot, what is the matter?

   You’re brain’s shot! We’ll be served on a platter.

   And what she can’t eat she’ll give to the dogs,

   or we will be some swell swill for her hogs.

  

   HANSEL:  My word, Gretel, you’re overreacting.

   I think you need to try interacting

   with that fine lady who treats us so well.

   Why must you make poor Witchy’s life hell?

   Kindness and decency are stuff you lack,

   when all your hormones are way out of whack.

  

   GRETEL: Hormones? I ought to whack you with hormones

   upside your head, that useless sphere of bones

   that hasn't a neuron or synapse

   or cell to make thoughts. A brain of odd scraps

   that God had around when you were conceived.

   And you, you dolt, have been greatly deceived

   by old Witchy, whose really evil plot

   is to plop us both into her big pot.

  

   HANSEL: Dammit, why don’t you hush up, Gretel.

   Witchy isn’t about to throw us in her kettle.

   Besides, it’s all your fault that we are here.

   I should be home on the couch drinking beer.

  

   GRETEL: That’s your idea of work, isn’t it?

   To have a beer or two, then sleep a bit.

   But if you’d stopped to ask directions

   we would have managed those intersections

   and not got lost. But, Mr. Know-It-All,

   remember pride goeth before the fall.

   And now all we can do is sit and wait,

   till Witchy-poo serves us up on a plate.

  

My Ambition Up and Left Me

 My ambition up and left me, and now I’m really in a sweat.

   The computer’s on, coffee’s hot, a CD’s playing, I’m all set

   to write a story, poem or book until I start to write and then

   my wandering mind goes quickly off to hither and then yon. When,

   I wonder, will it come back to compose some poetry or prose?

   Unfazed by caffeine and dark chocolate, my ennui just grows and grows,

   transforming all my good  intentions to pavement on that Hell-bound road.

   I should be frustrated; I should be angry. I should pen an ode,

   or rambling essay, or some fiction, or fictional non-fiction

   praising my valiant deeds, stunning looks, and perfect diction.

   Instead, I check my e-mail, look at Facebook and play solitaire

   when I should be scribbling novels or love poems to a damsel fair.

   But me? I keep on staring at the computer’s large, empty screen,

   confident at this pace I’ll have a paragraph by Halloween.

  

Notes from the Home XVII, July 17, 2013

   While wondering through the parking lot Saturday morning, I met a Hispanic gentleman on his way to visit his aunt. A good nephew, he was bringing her a cup of McDonald’s coffee. My sole complaint with the food service at Covenant Woods is the anemic coffee it brews up. His aunt feels the same way, the man said.

   We talked about the weather for a minute, and then he asked if I had been in the military. I told him about my short, uninspiring stint as a draftee.

   “I thought that might be a service-related injury,” he said, pointing to my legs. “What happened?”

   “Multiple sclerosis happened.”

   “How long have you had it?”

   “Since sometime in the early 1990s, I guess. But until 2005 I thought I was just getting old.”

   “You married?” he asked.

   “Divorced.”

   “Can you cope with women?” he said.

   “What was that?” I asked, thinking I’d misunderstood him.

   “Can you cope with women?” he asked again.

   Convinced that I was confused by his accent, I answered with a puzzled look.

   “Cope,” he said. “You know, cope: C-O-P-E.”

   “I don’t know how well I cope,” I said. “But, I manage to put up with them.”

   He laughed, told me to have a good day, and went on his way.

  

   In April, a week or two after moving into Covenant Woods, I called the Emory Clinic in Atlanta to make an appointment to have my baclofen tank refilled. We made a date for July 18. A few weeks later, Emory sent a medical history form for me to fill out and bring with me to the appointment. Two weeks ago, Harold from the Emory Clinic called to ask some questions about my condition and to get the name and number of the doctor I had been seeing at the Cleveland Clinic.

   Everything was proceeding smoothly, and Russ had scheduled himself off on the 18th to drive me to Atlanta. Then there was a change of plan. Thursday, while I was Skyping to writing class, the phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number and ignored the call. After class ended, I picked up the phone and debated whether I should return the call or wait to see if the caller wanted to talk to me enough to call back. Then the phone rang. It was an Emory Clinic scheduler. The clinic needed to reschedule my appointment; the doctor I was to see would be out of town on the 18th. Would the 25th at 9:30 be OK? she asked. I said it would be, and then I called Russ to make sure.

   A quick look at my phone’s calls received seemed to answer the question of who made the earlier call. The calls weren’t from the same number, but the numbers were close enough that they probably came from came from the same office. But they didn’t come from the same person, as I discovered when the phone rang on Friday the 13th.

   “Hello, this is Lisa from the Emory Clinic, may I speak to Thomas Harris, please?” she said perfunctorily.

   “This is he.”

   “Oh, is this Mrs. Harris?”

   “No, this is Mr. Harris.”

   “Is Mr. Harris available?”

   “This is Mr. Harris.”

   “OK,” she said doubtfully, the way a person says “OK” when she is sure she is being lied to but can’t prove it. I’m used to callers mistaking me for a woman when they hear my voice, but all the others were kind enough to hide their disbelief when I said they were speaking to Mr. Harris. Lisa, though, was calling to confess, and that might have affected her attitude.

   “Harold called you a few weeks ago to get the name and number of the doctor you were seeing at the Cleveland Clinic,” she said. “He gave it to me, but I’ve misplaced it. Can you give me that information?”

   Without implying that I doubted her competence, I gave her Dr. McKee’s name and telephone number. Later that afternoon, she called back to say she had received my records. It’s amazing how quickly large amounts of information can go from here to there with a few clicks of the mouse.

  

   Two weeks ago, a group of us from Covenant Woods went to hear the Hotlanta Jazz Quartet. It is a Dixieland group, and a very, very good one. The drummer is from New Orleans, the banjo player/vocalist is from Montana, the clarinet/sax player is from Wisconsin and the horn player is New England. But they all ended up in Atlanta and have been playing together since the late 1990s. The fellow who did all the singing had a voice right out of 1930s. It was great.

   The concert took place at the Liberty Theater. If there is an auditorium in the Liberty Theater, I didn’t see it. The wheelchair access for the theater is through the kitchen, and from there I was led into a room that looked like a church basement. There was a platform for the band at one end, and the audience of seventy-five or eighty people sat at tables. A caterer was set up in the kitchen, selling barbecue sandwiches, hot dogs, French fries, soft drinks and beer.

    Because of construction around the theater, the Jazz Society will be meeting in the basement of a nearby Episcopal church for the next year. There aren’t many Episcopalians down here, but the Jazz Society has a beer license and is working on getting a wine license, which would make it tough for them to find a home in one of the numerous Baptist churches.

   A week later, I got a nice reminder of that evening of jazz. Russ and Karen let me hang out with them Sunday, and among other things, they took me to a frozen yogurt place. While we were eating, the piped-in music piped in “Puttin’ on the Ritz,” a terrific song I hadn’t heard in years until the Hotlanta Jazz Quartet played it at the Liberty Theater.

  

   Bethany called yesterday, and we talked for over an hour. OK, she did most of the talking and I soaked up her enthusiasm, excitement and joy for life. The developmental specialist told her Hayden is ahead of where he should be in all areas for his adjusted age and ahead in most areas for his actual age. Last week, Beth sent me a short video of Hayden wearing her sunglasses. The kid is one cool dude.

   Yesterday at supper, Sue – who used to sell antiques and now does some writing – gave me some information about winningwriters.com’s contest for essays or fiction involving sports. The site also is also holding a contest for humorous poetry. They don’t accept previously published material, which eliminates all my extant sports stuff. Twenty-five or thirty of the best humorous poems from last year’s contest were posted, and they are all considerably longer – I mean really, really longer – than any I have written. But the contests don’t close until May 31, 2013. I guess that eliminates all my excuses.

   And one more thing in the things-are-looking-up category: at 7:45 this morning I went out for my morning constitutional, and for the first time since the middle of May it was cooler outside than it was inside in the air conditioning. It will probably be another couple of months before that happens again, but it was an oh-so-pleasant surprise.

  

   

Notes from the Home XVI, July 1, 2012

Life at Covenant Woods gets curiouser and curiouser. There is the Evelyn and William question: Are they lovers? Sometimes at dinner they stare into each others' eyes, smiling and holding hands. Other times, they pout and spit insults across the table. Then William gets up and leaves. A few minutes later, Evelyn excuses herself. When I finish eating and head out, I usually find them in the lobby, sitting side-by-side on one of the couches, talking pleasantly.

   William is a retired Marine in his late fifties. Evelyn, who worked for the State of Florida, is in her early nineties. Despite her age, Evelyn stands straight, walks without assistance and speaks with authority, although she often makes the same authoritative statement several times in a fifteen-minute span. She is always well dressed, and her gray hair always just so. William is muscular – he must work out – and all his T-shirts are a few sizes too small; the better to show off his physique.

   Evelyn is a proud woman. Most of her conversations are about Evelyn, unless she is complaining about this or that. Often she’ll complain about things that weren’t done, which frequently turn out to be things that were done; she just doesn’t remember them being done. William spouts nonsense loud enough for everyone to hear. His diatribes are so disjointed that it’s often impossible to discern their targets. He is easily upset, and when he’s upset, his language gets earthy.

   Evelyn might be a cougar and William her prey, but I think it’s more likely William is the spoiled little boy, and Evelyn the doting mother. They depend on each other for affection, and for the satisfaction they get from playing with each others' emotions. But I was never very good at relationships; so who knows?

  

   Al, a retired Army officer, has as hard a time as anyone dealing with William. They exchanged words Friday at happy hour. Al told William to keep his voice down so he and Ed could have a conversation.  William said he wasn’t talking to Al and Ed, and that Al should butt out. They went back and forth, got loud and broke into four-letter words. Then we adjourned and went to dinner. Later, I ran into Al in the hallway.

   “I know William has problems,” Al said. “But damn it, he makes it impossible for anybody else to talk. It’s tough. I know. I’m starting to have problems with dementia myself.”

   He stopped and was quiet for a moment, then added, “And I’m not that old. I’m only eighty-eight.”

   There is a lounge area near the elevator and Al suggested we stop there and “bullshit.”

   “Why are we on this earth, Tom?” he asked. “Are we put here for some purpose? Does anything we do make a difference? Or are we just a bunch of chemicals? Do we matter? Really?”

   “I don’t know,” I said. “I wonder about that, too.”

   “I’m trying to find out. I’ve got a bunch of books upstairs I’m reading. I want to know why we’re here. Right now I’m reading Marcus Aurelius.”

   We talked a while longer and agreed that just because the human race is smart enough to build weapons capable of killing millions, perhaps billions, there’s no reason to believe we’re wise enough not to use them. Then Al took the conversation in another direction.

   “Tom, did you ever smoke marijuana?”

   “Once. In Vietnam,”

   “Did you like it?”

   “I can’t say. We’d been drinking beer, and I already had a buzz on. If the marijuana did anything for me, I didn’t notice.”

   “Well, if you ever want some marijuana, I’ve got it in the room,” Al said. “Get yourself a pipe and come up some day.”

   About that time, a woman on her way to the elevator came by, looked at Al, grinned broadly and said, “Don’t believe a word he says.”

   I am not sure if I should believe him or not. But last night, as we waited for the dining room to open, he extended the invitation again.

   As I said, it gets curiouser and curiouser.

  

   And it gets hotter and hotter. It was 104 in Columbus, Friday, equaling the all-time high. We had to wait until yesterday, when it was 106, to set the record. I’ve been out riding around every morning, but I’ve not been going out later in the day. According to Yahoo, it’s 103 at three o’clock this afternoon. On Thursday, however, the predicted high is a mild ninety-two, and I should be able to resume going out two or three times a day.