One night, after dinner, I knocked on Stu's door. "I am going out to do some errands. Would you like to come along?" Stu was coming up out of his Baccalounger in a second "You bet." He brought his walker.
All we did was go to the grocery store, the liquor store and a detour to see the Puget Sound and the Olympic Mountains. Even though he had spent most of his life in the state, he had stayed up in the foothills of the Cascades and this was all new to him. He loved it. I pointed out places of interest, historic sites and flowering trees and shrubs. He just took it all in.
"To be honest, having you along makes this 'an official trip'. " That was crap and Stu knew it. I liked having him along and it made the trip better. I was glad to have the company.
And he loved it. I plan on doing a lot more of this sort of thing as the days get longer this summer.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Angeline
She is a tiny owlish woman with more ticks than an abandoned sleeping bag. She blinks her eyes, scurries around like a neurotic cat and she has dozens of self-assigned tasks to complete. When we go shopping at the supermarket, she invariably has a list from at least one other resident and sometimes two lists to fill. She is convinced that without this service that she does, the other resident will surely starve--at the very least. She is all about punctuality--except for herself.
Once, in the middle of winter, the weather broke perfectly with blue skies allowing the Mountains to the west to show their latest snow covering in all of its glory. Since we were on the top of the hill and the mountain view was only a few blocks away, I suggested that we take a few minutes to swing around the hill and view the mountains. It was one of those days that everyone on the bus was a woman. The other girls loved it. They ohhed and awed at all of the appropriate places. A couple of them pointed out where they had lived. Everyone was having a great time. Everyone except Angeline. I could hear her in the back, saying 'shit!' and 'God damned it!' in short emphatic bursts. She wanted to get back and we weren't getting back nearly fast enough.
A month or so later, on another shopping trip, she became absolutely convinced that som of the bags had got mislabeled or something of the sort. She came off the bus cursing and damning us up-and-down. She was nearly beside herself. (Later, it became clear that there was nothing amiss.)
An hour later, she appeared with a letter for me. It was a letter of apology. It was not particularly easy-to-read for the handwriting, but she insisted that I read it; I was insisting that there was no need for apology. It was the usual fairly childish letter of apology. I looked up from reading it and said to Angeline: "But it's all right; you can't help it--you're Italian!" Angeline blinked a couple of times and brightened. This was exactly right! She was Italian! It wasn't her cursing me out but those aweful Italian DNA that she couldn't help. (She had told me she grew up in the Rainier Valley of Seattle when it was known as Ulcer Gulch for all of the Italians in the area.) She was delighted that she had apologized and better, she was off the hook. It wasn't Angeline, it was the cursed Italian blook that had made her swear and act badly.
She danced off to find another assignment.
Once, in the middle of winter, the weather broke perfectly with blue skies allowing the Mountains to the west to show their latest snow covering in all of its glory. Since we were on the top of the hill and the mountain view was only a few blocks away, I suggested that we take a few minutes to swing around the hill and view the mountains. It was one of those days that everyone on the bus was a woman. The other girls loved it. They ohhed and awed at all of the appropriate places. A couple of them pointed out where they had lived. Everyone was having a great time. Everyone except Angeline. I could hear her in the back, saying 'shit!' and 'God damned it!' in short emphatic bursts. She wanted to get back and we weren't getting back nearly fast enough.
A month or so later, on another shopping trip, she became absolutely convinced that som of the bags had got mislabeled or something of the sort. She came off the bus cursing and damning us up-and-down. She was nearly beside herself. (Later, it became clear that there was nothing amiss.)
An hour later, she appeared with a letter for me. It was a letter of apology. It was not particularly easy-to-read for the handwriting, but she insisted that I read it; I was insisting that there was no need for apology. It was the usual fairly childish letter of apology. I looked up from reading it and said to Angeline: "But it's all right; you can't help it--you're Italian!" Angeline blinked a couple of times and brightened. This was exactly right! She was Italian! It wasn't her cursing me out but those aweful Italian DNA that she couldn't help. (She had told me she grew up in the Rainier Valley of Seattle when it was known as Ulcer Gulch for all of the Italians in the area.) She was delighted that she had apologized and better, she was off the hook. It wasn't Angeline, it was the cursed Italian blook that had made her swear and act badly.
She danced off to find another assignment.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Bill
I got a knock on the door of my apartment about 6:30 tonight. The nightman who is 'the company' presence all night, wanted to know if I could drive Bill to the hospital: "I can't get a cab to come here--they're all busy or something, but I haven't been able to get one."
I said "Of course" and started out the door. The nightman was sort of taken aback by the immediacy of my response. "Of course, if Bill has to get to the hospital, we go."
The nightman told me that Bil's temperture was 102.
Bill was waiting up in the front lobby sitting in a seat. Bill is 90 something and blind since his early adult years. Now, his hearing is going bad. He can hear but barely, everything has to be repeated and even then, sometimes not. I got him into the van and off for the hospital we went.
A few blocks from the New Pointe, he asked "What is the name of this cab company?" I told him that I was his normal driver and not a cab at all. "This one is on the house," I said.
We got up to the hospital and finally, a nurse got a hold of him and took him into an examing cubicle. Forget about the medical privacy act; Bill was telling the nurse that he was "93 years old, blind and I have a temperture of 102--what more do you need to know?"
I said "Of course" and started out the door. The nightman was sort of taken aback by the immediacy of my response. "Of course, if Bill has to get to the hospital, we go."
The nightman told me that Bil's temperture was 102.
Bill was waiting up in the front lobby sitting in a seat. Bill is 90 something and blind since his early adult years. Now, his hearing is going bad. He can hear but barely, everything has to be repeated and even then, sometimes not. I got him into the van and off for the hospital we went.
A few blocks from the New Pointe, he asked "What is the name of this cab company?" I told him that I was his normal driver and not a cab at all. "This one is on the house," I said.
We got up to the hospital and finally, a nurse got a hold of him and took him into an examing cubicle. Forget about the medical privacy act; Bill was telling the nurse that he was "93 years old, blind and I have a temperture of 102--what more do you need to know?"
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Marge
Marge is 95 but dresses like a million bucks. She is always dressed in immaculate clothes with a nice eye to both color and cut. She has a short blue coat that any woman would love to wear. Her nails are better than perfect and of the brightest red possible. She walks with a walker, but erect and steady.
We had a wedding here recently. Two of the residents met here and fell in love. It happens. Sometimes, it happens just right and they decided to have the wedding here.
Marge showed up wearing a long black velvet dress, high heels and what I can only presume in my fashion illiteracy would be called a Bolero jacket. Anyway, it was a short jacket with a lovely black-and-white print that matched the skirt and Marge looked fabulous. She was in her fancy and loving it.
We had a wedding here recently. Two of the residents met here and fell in love. It happens. Sometimes, it happens just right and they decided to have the wedding here.
Marge showed up wearing a long black velvet dress, high heels and what I can only presume in my fashion illiteracy would be called a Bolero jacket. Anyway, it was a short jacket with a lovely black-and-white print that matched the skirt and Marge looked fabulous. She was in her fancy and loving it.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Stu
Stu just moved into New Pointe and he looks like a grumpy gus but I finally sat at his dinner table.
Seating in the dining hall is fairly regimented. And yet not so much as seems at first glance. You are assigned to a seat at a particular table. There are as many as six and as few as two people assigned to a table (one poor soul insists on sitting by herself). Your name is put on a little stand and there you are. You can request to move and it will be granted.
I have decided to not be assigned anywhere and instead, rotate from table to table every meal. It makes it more interesting and the residents seem to like it.
So tonight I found myself sitting down to dinner with Stu. He sounds gruff only because he is a large man of some eighty years or so and he grew up in the American Southwest. I asked about his childhood. He told a beautiful tale, beautifully told with a strong voice. "I was a 'widow's child' (I assume that means that his father died before he was born). There was talk of 'giving up the boy'. But my uncle came one day and told my mother 'He's your boy and you raise him. Find a way and stop this talk of 'giving up the boy'. He's yours and you raise him."
I couldn't help myself and verbally punched the air, saying "Good for your uncle". Stu didn't stop his story but acknowledged the sentiment. "And so there was no more talk of 'giving up the boy'. My mother did home baking and I went out once a week and sold donuts in the neighborhood."
"Eventually she took in two nephews that were ready to graduate from high school and even a neighbor boy."
Stu spoke with such dignity and conviction that it was very moving and yet simple. The simple story of the poor, to paraphrase Lincoln.
Dinner was very good with shrimp and tortelinnni. Stu only added to the food but it was all the better for him.
Seating in the dining hall is fairly regimented. And yet not so much as seems at first glance. You are assigned to a seat at a particular table. There are as many as six and as few as two people assigned to a table (one poor soul insists on sitting by herself). Your name is put on a little stand and there you are. You can request to move and it will be granted.
I have decided to not be assigned anywhere and instead, rotate from table to table every meal. It makes it more interesting and the residents seem to like it.
So tonight I found myself sitting down to dinner with Stu. He sounds gruff only because he is a large man of some eighty years or so and he grew up in the American Southwest. I asked about his childhood. He told a beautiful tale, beautifully told with a strong voice. "I was a 'widow's child' (I assume that means that his father died before he was born). There was talk of 'giving up the boy'. But my uncle came one day and told my mother 'He's your boy and you raise him. Find a way and stop this talk of 'giving up the boy'. He's yours and you raise him."
I couldn't help myself and verbally punched the air, saying "Good for your uncle". Stu didn't stop his story but acknowledged the sentiment. "And so there was no more talk of 'giving up the boy'. My mother did home baking and I went out once a week and sold donuts in the neighborhood."
"Eventually she took in two nephews that were ready to graduate from high school and even a neighbor boy."
Stu spoke with such dignity and conviction that it was very moving and yet simple. The simple story of the poor, to paraphrase Lincoln.
Dinner was very good with shrimp and tortelinnni. Stu only added to the food but it was all the better for him.
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