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 |  A Baby-Boomer STILL alive and living in senior housing...
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The random thoughts of a Baby-Boomer STILL adjusting to life in senior housing (after five years)... Almost exactly nine months after World War II ended, one historian writes, “the cry of the baby was heard across the land.” More babies were born in 1946 than ever before: 3.4 million, 20 percent more than in 1945. This was the beginning of the so-called “baby boom.” In 1947, another 3.8 million babies were born; 3.9 million were born in 1952; and more than 4 million were born every year from 1954 until 1964, when the boom finally tapered off. By then, there were 76.4 million “baby boomers” in the United States. They made up almost 40 percent of the nation’s population. - www.history.com |
| Ugh! Time for another break. Not sure when I’ll be back…things are going on. Hopefully… Life is good. |
| Ugh! On my way to run an errand yesterday, I threw a bag of trash into the dumpster outside The Home. Silent Connie came outside right after me; I nodded to her knowing I’d receive no recognition in return. I was right – she ignored me. I walked to my car, got situated, and as I backed out, from the rear-view mirror, I saw SC ripping open my bag of trash! What the heck? She had pulled it out of the dumpster and was going through the contents of my garbage! I was tempted to pull back into my parking slot and confront her, but I drove on after thinking about what was in the trash bag. This is the sad part. I KNEW what was in the trash bag. How sad is that? Sometimes I can’t recall what I had for lunch yesterday, but when it comes to trash – photographic memory: two soup cans, the root end of a stalk of celery, part of a tuna salad sandwich, the cores of several apples, an empty yogurt package, onion skins, a LOT of cigarette butts (I must stop soon…but yesterday I received my free sample of an electronic cigarette; I thought I’d give it a try – I just have to learn how they work), two empty cans of solid albacore tuna, paper towels, and discarded mail; which, I tear in half JUST IN CASE someone goes through my trash. Now I know at least one person goes through my trash. And she won’t admit it because she doesn’t talk to me…grrr. I never thought anyone would want to go through my trash. I’m not a celebrity or political figure; I’m merely an old man living out his days on this cruise-ship asylum. I have nothing to hide…unless you count my gut, and that’s getting difficult to hide. So far, none of my fellow passengers have asked me, “When are you due?” *sigh* - I mean, “Yay!” Just another day at The Home. Life is good. |
| Ugh! On my welfare-check phone call with Mom/Dad, we determined we are all getting old: Dad is experiencing hearing loss, Mom gets up to pee three times a night – interrupting her sleep, and me: I placed the call, and when they picked up and we said our Hellos, I’d forgotten why I’d called them…other than the fact I do it daily. You see, I call them each day to see how they are doing – are they hungry, are they cold/hot, are they tired, etc. But the kicker is, they put me on speakerphone as soon as they pick up…so I don’t know who else is in the vicinity listening to a private conversation. As a result, my responses are usually neutral when it comes to family matters. I recall last fall, asking them if they’d heard from Jane (my sister, their daughter), and I heard faintly, “Hi, I’m here.” I had no idea she was there…not that I was going to say anything negative, but, still, let me know who is near the phone. I think callers should be advised when they are on a regular phone (one unit) and speakerphone (where everyone in the vicinity can listen/partake in the conversation. Technology has advanced us to the speakerphone phase of communications, but, let’s be real. There are times when one wants to say something to another in confidence – not others. Like how much weight I gained over the past six months. Dad doesn’t care, Mom just shrugs, but what if there are myriad others in the vicinity of the phone who could hear my woes. Not a good idea, in my mind. Mom/Dad, when they answer the phone NEVER indicate who else is there. It’s maddening. I have a phobia about public speaking (not as bad as my seventh-grade classmate, Anne, who said in her extemporaneous speech, way back then, that more people are killed by skateboards than automobiles. True story. I felt sorry for her). I sweat and stammer. I have no idea where it comes from – it just does. I’ve already experienced some “oops” moments whilst chatting with Mom/Dad. I don’t need anymore. I don’t want to begin each phone conversation with “Who else is there?” but, at the same time it might be nice if they’d clue me in that others are in the vicinity. Not a big deal. But it does make me measure whatever I say. I’d rather if I could say whatever I want to. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Mrs. Roper was up to her tricks yesterday here at The Home. She AGAIN got her scarf entangled in her mailbox. I don’t understand why she wears scarves…maybe it’s a female thing? And, I can’t believe she can’t extricate herself – she manages to get it involved in the lock of her mailbox, rendering her mailbox key useless because the lock is entangled in her scarf. Maintenance was called once again. With the new management and new rules here at The Home, I fear it’s merely a matter of time before she starts getting charged for her mishaps. Maybe she’ll learn a lesson in proper mailbox execution. I had no mail. YAY! But I kind of felt sad after seeing Mrs. Roper bent half-staff, waiting for maintenance to come disconnect her. I don’t know what maintenance does to free her (I think it might be illegal, because they are mailboxes), but they show up and free her. She says “thank you, gentlemen” and walks to the elevator, leaving a hint of patchouli behind her. And that sums up the highlights of living at The Home yesterday…something to look forward to, huh? Life is good. |
| Ugh! Relatively quiet weekend here at The Home. No wild parties, fireworks, explosions, fires…just a bunch of old people living in the same building…sadly, none of us did anything of consequence. I set the clocks needing so back an hour (most of my clocks/devices automatically work with Daylight Savings Time). I experienced difficulty with changing the clock on my stove – it’s temperamental. I threw the circuit breaker to reset it to 12:00, then stood there pressing on the button to set the time. I wish it would advance in 10-, 15-, 20-, or 30-minute increments. It doesn’t. It’s one minute per press. My thumb was sore after making the change. I’m good for the next few months, now though. I ran into Larry in the lobby, in his preferred position: sprawled out on the sofa in the lobby. He wore shorts (could have been underwear – I didn’t check closely) and a t-shirt reading “I’m Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.” I have no idea where he got it. He was snoring, so I just retrieved my mail and headed back upstairs. I was happy. I really like standard time. It might be because I enjoy overcast, rainy days. So darkness arriving about 5 p.m. is perfect for me. When I visited Scotland years ago, in early November, I recall it being completely dark by 4 p.m. I was excited. Lame entry, I know. My life is not very exciting right now. Nevertheless… Life is good. |
| Ugh! I’m getting old. In the past few weeks I’ve realized I’m aging. I have grey pubic hair. I eat dinner at 5 p.m. I go to bed before 9 p.m. And I experience difficulty standing up. Not standing – I have no problem standing – it’s getting into the standing-up position. More and more I realize I’m “pushing” myself into an upright position. And I make a sound when I do it, too – it’s a cross between a grunt and a groan. *shame* *embarrassment* It’s gotten to the point that I question the feasibility of standing up at times: do I really need to do it, or is it just a whim? If I’m watching a show which engages me, sitting is fine for the duration. But if whatever I’m watching allows my mind to wander (or wonder) I get antsy…meaning I have to move. Sitting is nice – there’s little effort applied in sitting: one is just there. But now, I find sitting a challenge – when I want to change position, it’s an effort to reawaken my leg that has fallen asleep and I sigh in exasperation. (I hope the government is not spying on me and listening to my grunts and groans throughout the day…I’m not a threat to national security – just for the record.) So, I have this to fill my everyday existence…to stand, or not to stand. That is the question. Sad. Pathetic. Still… Life is good. |
| Ugh! *knock* *knock* I looked through my peephole and saw Crazy Diane…again. “What now?” I thought. “Yes?” (CD) “I wondered if you could lend me a slice of bread. I’m hungry for toast. I’ll return it Tuesday after I shop.” (me) “No, sorry, Diane. I don’t have a spare slice of bread.” Which technically was true – I use flat bread for my sandwiches…they’re not run-of-the-mill slices of bread. (CD) “Connie thought you could help me.” I’m going to have a talking-to with Complaining Connie; she keeps sending CD to my door. (me) “Sorry.” (CD) “Okay, I thought I’d ask you. Take care.” (me) “I will.” I put my headphones on to block out the sounds of rapping on my door. Geez. *sigh* Why did I get out of bed yesterday? Still… Life is good. |
| Ugh! Talked to Mom/Dad yesterday, and we reminisced about Hurricane Sandy that affected us one year ago. We all lost power for a few days during the event. I survived the storm relatively unscathed: I had books/magazines to read, I had an oil lamp and flashlight, and I had leftovers to eat. Leftovers are my favorite type of meal…it’s a second (or third or fourth) experience of eating something delicious. I learned my cooking practices from Mom. She had to prepare meals for eight people. It’s difficult to gauge just how much to make, so we routinely had leftovers later in the week. To this day, I cook one day per week to prepare my meals ahead of time. And in the event of a power outage, I don’t need to go hungry. Each day, when I call Mom/Dad for our welfare-check phone call, I attempt to engage Mom in the conversation by asking, “What’s on your menu for tonight?” She pauses, says, “Lemme think” and then after a few seconds she comes back with, “…leftovers. I don’t see anything wrong with that, do you?” (Mom has always sought validation.) I reply, “Not at all. I’m having leftover [whatever I have leftover]. It’s nice to just nuke it and eat with little effort.” Then, almost on cue, she says, “I can’t remember what leftover we’re having.” *sigh* Yet, she can identify people in a photograph taken 75 years ago from her one-room school house. Her dementia is increasing slowly, and it’s sad to witness. In other news from The Home, Larry is back to his old ways, despite his warning letter from management: I found him spread out on the lobby sofa wearing boxer shorts. I’m not sure if it’s civil disobedience or just forgetfulness. I acknowledged him with, “Good afternoon.” He appeared to be asleep – no response. (My good deed for the day.) Life is good. |
| Ugh! On Sunday, I placed my welfare-check phone call to my parents as usual from here at The Home. I got a recording saying, “…the party you are calling is on the phone. Please leave a message.” I didn’t leave a message; I figured I’d call again in 30 minutes or so. I did so and got the same message. As I hung up, I received an incoming call; my caller ID said it was Dad’s cell phone. I thought it odd. “Hello?” (Dad) “It’s Dad.” (Mystery solved) “Our new phones aren’t working.” (me) “That’s odd – they’re brand new.” *lots of static* *more static* “Are you there?” (Dad) (me) “I’m still here. What’s going on?” (Dad) “The new phones don’t work.” Mom/Dad recently ordered a new phone system to replace their failing one. “I’m gonna have to return it and use my cell phone for a few days.” (me) “Okay. Keep me posted.” *static* “By the way, how many headsets does your new phone have?” (Dad) “Three, why?” (me) “I thought maybe one may not be engaged and maybe it’s the problem.” (Dad) “Lemme check.” *silence* *silence* *barely audible curse word* “Okay. Mom left the phone off the hook at my desk.” (Just as a matter of fact, Mom avoids his desk…) Off-the-hook? The phrase is from decades ago. And what was Mom doing in your den to cause this? I said, “Well, that explains it.” (Dad) “Yup. Talk to you soon.” *click* *sigh* I’m old and can’t work with technology like I used to. Mom and Dad are even older…heck they remember the two-piece phones. Thankfully, I’m not that old. Yet. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Bernie, my across-the-hall neighbor, took down her bleeding Jesus picture over the weekend. She replaced it with a Post-It stating, in part, “…constipated. Didn’t sleep. Please do not call me (999) 999-9999.” *sigh* There are two people named “Connie” here at The Home. One is my “beloved” Complaining Connie – who can produce misery on the most-sun-filled day imaginable. The other I’ve dubbed Silent Connie. I’ve been here at The Home for over five years, and I’ve never heard even a peep from her. When we encounter one another, I used to say, “Hello” and in return I got nothing. Now I just nod as she rushes past me. It seems she’s always on her way to an important meeting…forever in a rush. She dons a handbag over her shoulder – her handbag rests on her bosom (the straps are short and not intended for over-the-shoulder purposes). It looks uncomfortable to me, but she clutches her bag as if her life depended on it. I have no clue what the heck she carries in it (I ask the same question about Queen Elizabeth – what necessitates carrying your handbag everywhere? It’s not like you need car fare!). Well, Saturday, I checked my mail in the lobby. No sign of Larry (good thing), but Silent Connie was at her mailbox. Her back was to me; I checked my mailbox – nothing – YAY! We closed our mailboxes at the same time. I returned to the stairwell to climb back upstairs (the elevator was in use and I didn’t feel like waiting). As I opened the door, I heard, “You know it wouldn’t kill you to say ‘hello.’” A resurrection, an epiphany, a miracle – SILENT CONNIE SPEAKS! No, it was Complaining Connie, who had just rolled out of the elevator with her mangy dog, Rascal, and Angie in tow. (The stairwell is right next to the elevator shaft.) She was dressed enough to outlast an Arctic blast for a month or so (the temps were in the lower 50s). She coughed several times and squeaked out, “G - *cough* - G’morni - *cough cough* silence *cough* G’morning.” (me) “Oh, good morning. I didn’t see you.” (CC) “It’s because you weren’t looking.” (She’s accruing Larry’s language each day. I wonder if they meet on the sly?) (me) “No, it’s not so. I just came down to check my mailbox.” I turned back to the stairwell to commence my ascent. “Have a nice day.” (CC) “Oh, sure…it’s easy for you to say.” She coughed some more, and the last I heard was “…need a smoke…” I made my way back to my abode, made sure my door was locked, and watched a rerun episode of “Downton Abbey.” I was happy. And… Life is good. |
| Ugh! I ran into Larry in the lobby yesterday when I went to retrieve my mail. He sat upright on the sofa and sported a long-sleeved, button-down-collar shirt; jeans, shoes, and socks. I had to think quickly, “Is this a special day I’ve forgotten?” (I do tend to lose track of what day it is at times. Thank goodness – every morning when I turn on my computer, I see a welcoming message announcing, “Today is [day of the week], date, and time.”) I couldn’t think of anything I was missing, so I said, “Hi, Larry.” He nodded. I went to my mailbox, opened it, found nothing and said, “Have a nice day.” I strive to be friendly to the other passengers on this doomed ship christened The Home. He coughed and said, “Can you believe it?” I paused on my way back to the stairwell and thought, “Can I believe what?” There was no big news so what the heck was he referring to. I said, “Believe what, Larry?” He said his signature line: “You know.” And I got shivers like always happens when I interact with him. “You know,” he repeated. I said, “What are you referring to, Larry?” (him) “The letter I got from [The Home management] about being rude.” (me) “No. I didn’t hear.” (him) “It seems some people here are upset with me. I try to be friendly and talk to others, but they’re concerned and complaining about the way I do it. They say I’m being rude. I don’t get it.” I paused and quickly thought of all the times I’d seen Larry in the lobby, scantily clad, with no shoes or socks, reclining on the sofa. He’s not a mean person – he’s a bit odd, but nothing to fear. In fact, there are days when I relish interaction with him – it gives me fodder for my posts. I said, “Larry, it might be a good idea to wear socks, shoes, pants, and a shirt.” And I thought, “Definitely cover up your gross feet” but I kept that to myself. He stared at me. I replied, “Larry, you have to cover yourself when you’re in public.” (L) “I do.” (me) “Not enough, though.” Silence. Silence. (him) “I like to be free.” I paused and said, “Okay, just don’t be too free.” And I ascended the stairs to my place, making sure my door was locked. *sigh* Some days it might be better to just stay in bed for 24 hours. *double sigh* And now it’s on to the weekend. Yay! Life is good. |
| Ugh! I had an errand to perform yesterday…a cold front came through overnight, so the outdoor temperature was in the lower 30s…not atypical of October. One should expect that. So I put on my coat and headed out through the lobby. I encountered Complaining Connie in her wheelchair outside the front door. She wore a ski cap, scarf wrapped around her neck and mouth (she pulled it away to puff away on her cigarette), boots, and a blanket over her shoulders and on her lap. I said, “G’morning.” She moved her scarf down to cough, took a drag on her cigarette, and replied, “Yeah…what’s good about it?” Just the impetus I needed to start my day – NOT! I considered just ignoring her, but through kindness I said, “At least there’s no snow.” (CC) “Not yet. It’s coming, though.” I got shivers…she’s starting to sound like Larry. (me) “Well, we are approaching winter…we really can’t complain.” (CC) “It’s too early.” The calendar does not lie…it’s believable: it’s October – the weather is going to turn colder as a matter of fact – it happens and there’s nothing we can do about it. Grousing about it will produce nothing. Mrs. Roper came out the front doors of The Home wearing a hibiscus caftan and said, “Good morning all. Isn’t it a glorious day?” and she threw her bag of trash into the dumpster. She turned around, said, “Have a nice day,” and went back inside. CC said, “What makes her so chipper?” I wanted to say, “She enjoys life in all its forms – perhaps you could try it at some point.” But I said, “I have to go.” Wimp. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Angie, who lives on the second floor here at The Home received a warning letter from management that she has too many animals in her apartment. I knew she housed two cats (which is against the rules), but, get this. She also has a squirrel. A squirrel? I see them scurrying along the sidewalks and utility wires. How the heck does someone have a squirrel living in an apartment? Granted, they’re cute and playful – but it’s the last thing we need here at The Home – a squirrel infestation. We already possess enough nuts for the critters to get through the winter! Ai, ai, ai…I didn’t know what to say to Angie. I wanted to ask how in the world she ended up with a squirrel in her place, but dreaded a long, drawn-out explanation. Besides, I had to pee so I just said, “Have a nice day. I hope things work out for you.” I hightailed it to my apartment and made sure my door was locked. A squirrel? Yikes. Life is good. |
| Ugh! My across-the-hall neighbor, Bernie, put up her “bleeding Jesus” picture on her door again yesterday. She’s very quiet – I rarely hear anything from her apartment; the bird sounds have ceased. (She used to put up Post-Its announcing a “medical necessity” and to NOT call her at (999) 999-9999 and the bird was asleep. Well, I heard from Complaining Connie that Bernie’s bird died (it wasn’t asleep) – she said it with a smile and a deep inhale and exhale from her cigarette. I found it creepy.) When Bernie and I do meet, we’re both cordial. I’d like to ask her the meaning behind her Jesus picture, but am not sure how to broach the subject: “Umm, what’s up with bleeding Jesus?” or “Why not a pumpkin or a kitten?” or “What the heck is going on?” I think the last one is sort of rude. In other news, there’s a notice posted in our elevator here at The Home which reads, “All pets must be leeshed at all times.” *sigh* I’m tempted to hang a notice next to it reading something like, “All management should learn to use spell check,” but I won’t. Thank goodness the management people aren’t tasked with sending out distress signals on this voyage to the beyond; imagine the local authorities receiving the following: “SOS! Ship on fire. Sinking. Send heelp at ounce.” We would all perish. I retrieved my mail yesterday. I could tell Mrs. Roper had been in the lobby near the mailboxes. Patchouli hung in the air. She got there and left before I did. But I did run into Heidi Hitler. I said, “Hello.” She grunted, “Mmmrphhg,” and ignored me. What a pleasant neighbor… Life is good. |
| Ugh! Well, I survived another weekend here at The Home. A few scattered showers, but temperatures were nice – no need for air-conditioning (thank goodness, because mine are uninstalled). Saturday afternoon, I checked my mailbox in the lobby. Crazy Diane was there talking to Larry, who was prone on the sofa wearing (again) his “I  Lesbians” t-shirt, shorts and no shoes or socks. I doubt Larry would know a lesbian if he ever encountered one. This is what I saw and heard in the few minutes it took to check my mailbox: (CD) “I like your shirt. It’s colorful.” (L) “What?” (CD) “I said I like your shirt.” (L) “Oh, this? I wear it every few days.” (CD) “What are lesbians?” (L) “They’re from Lebanon…you know, the mid-east…Lebanon. They have nice eyes.” I thought, “Ohhhhhhhhhh-kay!” I closed my mailbox, avoided interacting with both Larry and Crazy Diane and headed back to my two-room safe abode. *Wow* Life is good. |
| Ugh! I woke up yesterday. I made my coffee. I solved the New York Times crossword puzzle in 15 minutes. I read the headlines. I determined Armageddon was not upon us (I remain cautiously optimistic). I showered, watched a movie, ate lunch, watched another movie, ate dinner, checked online for news, and then went to bed. Welcome to my world here at The Home on a day during which I avoided contact with the other lambs on this voyage to greener pastures. *SIGH* Life is good. |
| Ugh! I retrieved my mail yesterday here at The Home. Larry had taken control of the sofa in the lobby: he was stretched out wearing a swastika-emblazoned t-shirt, what-looked-like pajama bottoms, and no shoes or socks. (me) “Hi, Larry.” (him) “Be alert.” I tried to ignore him, but he piques my interest – even if it’s only for a few seconds. I replied, “I am. Are you?” He sat upright, coughed and said, “Oh, I’m ready.” Then he coughed again and laid back down on the sofa. I checked my mailbox – no mail – YAY – no bills! I said, “Why are you alert?” and regretted the question. He said the words I hate hearing from him: “You know.” Why does he do that? He always says it and it plants a seed of curiousness in my brain – does he really think that or is he merely tormenting me? I strive to restrict my interactions with him, but it’s difficult to not acknowledge him when our paths cross. I considered just leaving him lounging in the lobby and heading back to my place, but because I didn’t want to be rude, I said, “What are you talking about?” Innocent question, right? He half sat up, “It’s coming.” I headed to the elevator. As I waited for the door to open, he reclined again on the sofa and half-yelled across the lobby, “It’s coming. Be alert.” The door opened and I got back to my place. I have NO clue what he talked about…and his t-shirt sort of creeped me out. I made pork, sauerkraut, and cranberries yesterday for my meals this week. Life is good. |
| Ugh! I call Mom/Dad each day from here at The Home for a welfare check. They always put me on speakerphone. For the past two months, we’ve experienced problems while talking: the phone goes dead for some unknown reason. I hang up and try calling them back. I get a busy signal because they’re trying to call me back. Sometimes it takes about 10 minutes until we reconnect. I tell them it happens only when I’m talking with them…I don’t experience any difficulties through hours-long conversations with my sister. I said maybe it was time for a new phone for them. Dad ordered a new phone (to replace their 22-year-old phone) and had it delivered last week. I called on Monday. Mom answered and greeted me with the news about the new phone. I congratulated them for upgrading. She said, “Wait. Let me put you on speakerphone.” *pause* “Arhoo stee hair?” “What?” (me) “Arhoo stee hair?” (him) “I don’t understand you. It’s very difficult to hear you. It sounds like you’re in a war zone. What’s that loud sound?” “Arhoo stee hair?” (him) I said, “I’ll call you back. There must be something wrong with the connection.” *click* *redial* *ring ring* “Hello? It’s me again.” (me) “I turned the leaf blower off. Now can you hear better?” (Dad) “Yeah, much better.” (me) “Mom and I are working in the yard cleaning up for the year. I had the handset on the patio table. The speakerphone is supposed to work for up to 15 feet from the base. Couldn’t you hear us?” “Barely…it sounded like you were on a construction site – everything was garbled.” (me) “No, it’s just us working in the back yard. Wait, I’ll put you on speakerphone so Mom can talk.” *pause* “Hello?” (Mom) “Hi, Mom. How are you?” (me) I heard a roar in the background. “Hello? Hello?” “Da’s bowing eaves.” (her) “What?” (me) “I sa da’s bowing eaves. Arhoo stee hair?” (her) “I’ll call back later when you’re done with your yard work, okay?” (me) “Wha?” (her) “I’ll call later. Bye.” (me) *click* I called two hours later and they put me on speakerphone immediately; they were inside at that point. The connection was perfect. Dad boasted about the capabilities of their new phone. I sighed. “We heard the phone ring while I used the leaf blower.” *sigh again* Note to self: don’t use speakerphone if you have a leaf blower in your hands. Just another day here at The Home. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Yesterday, I spent an hour on the phone with Mom (Dad worked outside for the majority of the phone call). We got talking about things from 55 years ago (my memories) and 80 years ago (her memories). As I’ve mentioned before, Mom is exhibiting signs of dementia/Alzheimer’s disease (it runs in her family; I’m confident I’ll be affected by it in time). What sticks in my mind about our conversation? 1) I asked, “What are you having for dinner tonight?” – a question I ask every day during our welfare-check phone calls. She said, “Let me think.” *think* *think* Then, “I think it’s a leftover.” I sighed. 2) I asked, where she was born – in a hospital? At home? In a cabbage patch? She said, “Oh, I was born at home. It was how things were done then. I was born in the brick house beside Leo’s pond…you remember, where we all ice skated.” The insidiousness of what Mom is encountering makes me sad and mad…on one hand, I relish her memories from long ago; on the other hand, I find it wrenching she can’t recall last night. From what I understand, it’s how the disease operates. I got to thinking about me living here at The Home. I have to temper my feelings about some of my neighbors – their quirks, their idiosyncrasies, their comments, their actions. The majority of my neighbors are/were parents at some point in their lives. I must train myself to react as if I’m one of their offspring…and be patient with lots of head nodding and little frustration on my part. My one hope is Mom does NOT realize what is happening to her. Mom mentioned Leo’s Pond – it was in our neighborhood, created by damming the creek. Each winter, the water froze, and all us kids and some parents in our neighborhood skated on the lumpy ice. There was a make-shift shed there with three walls, a bench to put-on and take-off our skates. Leo had a 55-gallon barrel filled with burning wood so we had a place to warm up. Sad, I could only skate backwards. Yes, it’s true. How lame! I was made fun of constantly by my neighbors who GLIDED across the lumpy ice. I was lucky to stay upright on the blades (and I realized immediately, I would NEVER wear high heels; I did don them one Halloween back in the 70s – I wobbled more than walked, though. How do women deal with them?). So, I skated backwards for a few minutes, then went to warm my hands and feet by the fire in the shed. And the taunting stopped. It was a good thing for me. Life is good. |
| Ugh! I watched “Sophie’s Choice” over the weekend. Yes, it was maudlin here at The Home…not sure of the reason for my movie choice. Boredom? In any event, it was brain-draining and emotion-sucking. I have absolutely NO clue where the following arose from…mayhaps my mind wandered after the movie. In eighth grade I had to take wood shop class (where we learned to saw wood, chop wood, glue wood, stain wood, paint wood, construct with wood) – I dreaded it (I’d rather to have had Home Economics – a chocolate cake is easier to do than sawing, hammering, planing, gluing, etc.), but, it was part of my curriculum. At the time, I had infant siblings living at home. Their toys littered our living space. I decided to construct a toy box during the first class in September. Each week, I attended wood shop and slowly (emphasis on “slowly”) built my box. By the last class in mid-June, I had accomplished what I had set out to do: a box…it was big. I spent an entire school year building a box. How sad and pathetic is that? Oi. My friend, Linda, saw my brother and me carrying it home on the last day of school. She thought we were carrying a coffin. *sigh* Here’s the kicker: when my sister and I discuss Mom/Dad downsizing, we joke to each other what we want from our growing-up years in the house. I don’t have a lot of room, so I want one of Mom’s cookbooks. My sister has a whole list of wishes: from an antique Currier & Ives print of kittens frolicking to the old jelly cupboard to, wait, the toy box I made 46 years ago. Whenever she mentions it I sort of cringe. She tells me it reminds her of her childhood – she always knew where her toys were stored. (She also showcases in her living room the stuffed elephant I bought for her while traveling Germany in 1973 – she was six years old at the time, yet she kept the little memento. Maybe I do factor into her life?) I gather I did a pretty good job building my box. It has lasted nearly half-a-century…I’m proud. And I wonder what plans my sister has for a toy box that old (she has three children – two in college and one a senior in high school; it’s not like she needs it)...Mom/Dad still have it in their basement, still filled with toys from the 1960s. Perhaps my sister has ideas to rummage through the box and seek what is sellable. I don’t think so: slobber, puke, and sweat have all combined to wreck their pristine conditions. Maybe I should just believe her when she says it reminds her of growing up. If so, then I’m glad. Life is good. |
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no pun intended!
or just need to keep the old frame greased and moving more. Otherwise, the rust sets in and gravity is like a magnet on the iron joints constantly pulling down.