You Thought You Were Lost?

YOU THOUGHT YOU WERE LOST?

My wife and I live in what is called “An Elderly Persons Residential Community.” That’s just a fancy name for what used to be called a senior citizens’ mobile home park when we moved here 22 years ago. We really weren’t senior citizens back then; I was 55 and she was 50. The rules were one spouse had to be at least 55, the partner no younger than 45, so we made it just under the bar.

Like I said, that was a long time ago and we’ve become pretty well settled here in Space 7, one of 167 double-wides spaced out along streets named for the golf course next door – Divot, Green, Fairway, Par Four – cute names like that.

Since we are living along side older folks, it wasn’t surprising when an elderly gentleman with short-cropped hair, almost like a military cut except his hair was pure white, was spotted slowly ambling down our street the other day. We didn’t recognize him though and pondered if he belonged here.

“Maybe it’s the new guy who moved into Sorenson’s old place over on Par Four,” my wife said as she parted the front window drapes, keeping her eye on him.

Watching out the front window is a favorite pass time when you retire to a park; you get to know everyone and a stranger is closely followed by eyes in almost every window. Not much crime here; too many “neighborhood watchers.”

Of course, there’s Jan down the block. She knows everything about everybody, and she’ll tell you about it on the slightest provocation. “Did you hear about Kathy in space 58? Someone saw a man leave her place late last night, it was after 9:13; I wonder why he was there?” or “Bill and Dottie Carruthers apparently are splitting up. She loaded some boxes into her car yesterday, left and hasn’t come home. Poor Bill is all alone. I think I’ll take some chocolate chip cookies over to him...see what I can find out.”

Like I said, everyone knows and watches everyone else. Some folks who move in from a large house on a half-acre find out they can’t stand having a neighbor sitting on their patio 20 feet away looking into their living room. Those folks tend to move out in less than six months. That’s OK with us, cuz they usually weren’t too friendly anyway.

Back to the crew-cut old guy. We decided he definitely wasn’t a resident, so my wife called her friend Gladys. Gladys lived over two streets my wife asked if she had seen an old man with white hair, wearing a brown jacket and tan sneakers wander by her place.

“Yes, about two minutes ago,” I heard Gladys say on the phone.

Gladys was one of those LOUD people who obviously thought everyone on the phone was hard of hearing. She yelled all the time. I wondered how loud is she on her cell phone? Naw, I don’t wanna find out

“Any idea where he came from, Gladys? I mean on your street or is he lost?”

“I don’t know, I was weeding a planter when he walked by. I said ‘hi’ and he answered ‘lo’ and looked around like he seemed to be lost but he kept going. I thought he might be a visitor or somethin’.”

“Why don’t you call Mary over on Divot and ask if she knows, I’ll check with Carol Sue at the other end of the park. He just may be lost.”

The two women made a few more phone calls, then Gladys called my wife back and they exchanged notes. The old guy was seen first about 10 minutes ago at the southern end of the park and apparently had worked his way up and down every street to our place. Since we live on an outside street, he had no place else to go.

Another neighborhood spotter reported the old guy was now walking back south along the creek and had picked a couple of roses from the Bottomly’s prize rose bushes.

“The red tea roses, right in the middle?” Gladys wanted to know.

“No, I think they were the white ones on the side of the coach,” my wife answered.

“Good, because Beth just adores those red teas, she’d brain the old guy if he had taken those.”

At that point Jan checked in and announced the old guy was on Evan’s front porch ringing the bell. “The Evans are still in Arizona,” she announced, “so I wonder what he wants? I think I’ll call Bill and Barb.”

Bill and Barb Collins are the park managers; a young couple, in their late 40’s I think. Nice folks but the previous managers did a better job.

“Wait a sec,” Jan went on, “a strange car is stopping at the Evan’s. Hold on, let me see what happens.”

My wife sat down on the plastic cafe chair on our patio, phone at her ear, waiting for the latest.

“OK, a young girl got out, went up to the old guy, said something to him. They came back to the car...getting in now.” Jan paused for a moment, “OK, they are leaving now. I guess the old guy was her dad or something, he must have Alzenhimmer or Alzheimerson or however you say that.”

“Thanks, Jan,” my wife said as she looked at me, hand cupped over the phone, “he wasn’t from the park so it’s OK.” Then she spoke into the phone, “Jan, Quick! Get the plate number, I wanna know who that woman in the car was.”



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