Rock of the Aged

My sweet father in law passed away suddenly last week. He was the youngest of 14 children, born when his mom was 46 years old. They are a remarkable family. Incredibly, he still has an older sister, 88, and an older brother, 93, who survive him. Their dad was 98 when he passed away and their mom 103, so it was understandable when Tia (Auntie), the older sister, lamented that my father in law was “taken too young” at 86.

She still lives by herself and although she sits on two fluffy pillows to see over the steering wheel, she drove herself in her new car over two hours to get to the services. I love to be around the elderly, and I especially love her. She taught for 43 years and worked for the district in different capacities for another 20 years after that, only retiring in 2012. These are nuggets of wisdom straight from her mouth.

·        On passing several police officers whose belts and clothing strained to contain large overhangs: Why is it men these days have such huge bellies? (She rolls down her passenger side window) Honey, you need to put down the cerveza (beer) and pick up some dumb bells! Those criminals aren’t going to slow down to a walk to let you catch them!

·        On a much younger relative who has started wearing dread locks: Such a shame he has done that. Is he trying to be one of those rapping stars? Balding plus those braid things…they just don’t go together. He needs to look for his lost common sense the next time he looks in the mirror.

·        On the small, pearl handled pistol in her glove compartment, for which she has a permit: My daddy taught me to shoot when I was 6 years old and I haven’t ever forgotten. Don’t worry, I don’t pull it out too much anymore. It’s just if someone tries to rob me, or if I see a good buck at the ranch.

·        On New York City, where her only child, a son, is a physician and hospital administrator: I’d always heard people from New York are unfriendly and rude. But I solved that. I just look them in the eye, smile, and say, “Aren’t you beautiful!” And I nearly always get at least a little smile back. People need someone to tell them that, at least once a day.

·        On how active she is: I exercise every day. I even put on some shorts and a cute t-shirt when I do, even though it’s always at home. I turn on the music really loud and I move. That’s the key to anything you want to be successful at, especially living. Keep moving and don’t ever stop.

The Nursing Home

"These poor people, " my friend commiserated. "I feel so sorry for them, trapped in bodies that don't respond, with minds that are deteriorating, and then having to live in a place like this," she said as she swept her hand in front of her, indicating the sprawling nursing home before us.

"If I ever get to the point where I can't function independently, I think I'd just rather not live. What kind of quality of life can that be?" she wondered as we pressed the security button and waited to be buzzed in.

We made our way to the activity room, a sunny oasis with large windows and cheerful pastels on the wall and the furniture.

Aged men laughed heartily around one table as their game of dominoes took an unexpected turn. Another woman with wispy white hair and a toothless smile nodded and hummed to a melody heard only by her, even tapping her bent fingers on the armrest of her wheelchair.

A man who sat alone in his wheelchair nodded pleasantly as we walked past and answered animatedly in syllables unattached to any meaning after I asked him how he was doing.

A group of women, some of whom we had seen before, congregated around a large table near the middle, huddling close as they talked over something intently.

My friend and I set about our work of visiting and distributing some fruit to those in the activity room. One of the aides stopped by our table. "Good to see you two this morning, " she greeted us.

Muted cries that sounded like weeping came to us from the large table of women in the center.

"Is everything OK with them?" I asked her.

"Yes, bless their hearts. Paulita's husband, who usually visits her everyday, had a small stroke and is recovering in the hospital. Her family and all of the staff explain this to her everyday, but she forgets and wakes up in the morning thinking that he has died. It takes a lot of convincing to get her to understand that, and then she wakes up having to go through the whole process again.

I inched closer, not wanting to intrude, but to see if perhaps there was a way I could be of help.

Paulita wept openly, her hand over her heart, as if to hold the beating organ together.

A plump woman known as the Singing Lady for her penchant for loudly singing corridos from the 1940's patted Paulita's hand and sang a slow little tune to her.

A slight woman in a wheelchair, Sofia, appeared to lose interest with the goings on and slowly pushed herself in her chair down the hall, back to her room.

My friend came up to me and whispered, "I don't know how she's pushing herself in the wheelchair- she's got arthritis really bad in her hands and shoulders. I guess she got tired, though. She doesn't really talk anymore, so it's hard to tell." I noticed her fingers were contorted into unnatural positions as she slowly disappeared out the door.

The other ladies continued their comforting of Paulita, patting her and consoling her, sometimes with real words and sometimes with just sounds. Although a number of them could not remember their own family members, empathy and compassion were deeply embedded and well lived.

Paulita was calming down though her pink- cheeked face was wet with tears. She sniffled and smiled a bit as we passed out the last of our fruit.

I noticed Sofia slowly pushing herself back into the activity room. An aide went over to see if she needed help, but Sofia waved her away.

She alternated from one large wheel to the next, making her course somewhat crooked, and it was evident from her expression that each push hurt. Still, she pointed her chair to Paulita's table and arrived just as we packed up the last of our stuff.

Paulita watched as Sofia painstakingly pulled the wheelchair up beside her. Without a word, Sofia drew something from her lap and handed it to Paulita. It was a box of Kleenex.

When Paulita hesitated, Sofia pulled one out and gently dabbed Paulita's cheeks. As carefully as if the upset woman had been one her own children, Sofia finished swabbing Paulita's cheeks, then kissed her own life worn hand, pressed that palm into Paulita's forehead and patted it. She smiled at Paulita as she slowly turned her wheelchair around to head back down the hall to her room.

Quality of life, indeed.

When Kindness Is Hard...

The letter caught my eye as I went through the mail. It was addressed to my husband and written in a fine, spidery handwriting, much like an elderly person would write. The return address was Houston, about four hours from us. There was no name on the return address, just a street address.

When he got home and opened it, his forehead crinkled as he read it. Then he laughed. "Some lady in Houston thinks you and I are house painters and we took money from her to paint her house and never did it. She's saying she wants us to do it now or face legal consequences."

I had to chuckle because we don't even paint our own house. My husband is a manager at a large refinery, I am a schoolteacher, and we have never been house painters. As I looked at the letter, I deduced some things about the writer. First, she was most likely elderly, based on the shakiness of her writing. From her diction and semantics, it appeared she may not have had the opportunity for much schooling. I felt sorry for her. She signed it Miss Beulah ______.

"I'll write her a letter back, explaining that she's got the wrong couple. I know she'll appreciate having the information," I told him.

After I wrote it, I patted myself on the back. I felt I was kind to Miss Beulah in the letter, gently pointing out her mistake in sending it to us and even ending with a note that I truly hoped she found the right person and got what she paid for.

The next week, we received another letter from her. She was old she said, but she wasn't a fool. There were too many people who took advantage of the elderly. She had saved several years to get this money to paint her house. We took her $1,000 she said, and she wanted us to get her house painted. Now.

It took me by surprise. My husband reasoned, "Well, I'm going to have to call her and explain things. It's too bad she's spending time on us when the real person has her money and isn't doing anything."

He called the number she supplied in the letter. She answered and when he asked how she got our name and address, she explained she paid a neighbor boy $40 to conduct an internet search on my husband's name (which he shared with the slacker paint contractor) and the first address that came up was ours. She also remembered the wife telling her they lived in our area, so she knew it was us.

He patiently explained to her our facts, where we worked and that we had not ever been paint contractors. My husband is a very kind man and while he was on the phone with her, even did an internet search on his own for this painter. He found the man, his address, and even some clues to his paint contracting business online and gave the information to her. She thanked him and we thought all was well, good deed done.

Several weeks later, a constable pulled up to our house. We've known him for years and his wife worked with me. "You all been scamming old people?" he laughed. "Man, I've known you guys for a long time and didn't think you made your living stealing from the elderly!" he chortled as he handed over a summons. We were to appear in the county courtroom two weeks hence to answer the suit. There was nothing else to do at this point but appear in small claims court.

At school the next day the constable's wife laughed as she asked me in front of others in a faculty meeting about my new plan to steal from the elderly and retire early. I wasn't finding this so funny anymore. In fact, it irritated me more by the minute. "It's going to be alright, " my husband soothed when I told him. "Once we get there they'll see we're the wrong ones and that will be it."

We both had to take a day off of work and saw we would be missing one of Teenaged Daughter's volleyball games, as well.

We drove 25 miles to the courthouse and were shown to a waiting room. As a bailiff gave us information on our roles as defendants in the case, a young engineer from the mentoring group my husband leads at church walked past. The bailiff loudly continued his instructions to us, addressing us as "Defendants". The engineer looked startled even as he waved hello and his eyes widened. He hurried off.

"Great. Now everyone at church is going to think we've done this, too," I complained.

"No, they're not. They know us. Don't let it bother you."

"I've always had such great respect for the elderly, honey, but I really am upset with this lady. She's refused to listen to reason, she's caused us all this trouble, and people are always going to think there's a seed of truth even in the most outlandish of rumors. She's hurting our reputation!"

He put his hand over mine. "The truth is always going to come out. And we need to feel compassion for this lady. She's out a lot of money."

A large, elderly woman wheezed her way into the waiting area. She carried a faded purse and had on a worn sweater. Wisps of white hair peeked out from under a dark brown wig. "We made it. Finally, I'm gonna get some justice, " she nodded to a man who looked to be in his twenties. "I'll pay you the other half of what I owe you for driving me here when we get home." She fingered the clasp on her purse. "Lord, I don't have the money to be doing this, but it's wrong when people take advantage of the elderly."

Her companion nodded disinterestedly. "Yes'm, Miz Beulah."

I poked my husband and raised my eyebrows. He smiled and patted my hand.

Inside the courtroom, I still fumed inside at the disruption Miss Beulah had caused in our lives and at all the tongues that would be wagging about it. I had to pray and ask God for help because I was feeling so frustrated by it all.

She entered after us and settled herself uncomfortably in a too little chair. She wheezed as she worked to get her breath, still clutching her purse to her. She looked at us as the judge called out our names. Her shoulders slumped and her head dropped.

"Oh, Judge, "she said as she lifted her head again. "These are not the right people. I've made a mistake."

She turned to us. "I'm so sorry. Please forgive me." My heart melted and compassion finally flooded through me.

The judge dismissed the case and we met up with Miss Beulah again in the hall. I wanted to move past her as quickly as we could and get on with the day. Her weary eyes looked down as we neared. There was a catch in her voice as she said, "I'm so sorry. I've inconvenienced you folks and I never meant to. I just wanted justice to be done. Now, I've spent all this money to get here and I will have to start all over again."

My husband smiled gently at her as he replied, "Don't worry about that, Miss Beulah. Can we take you and your friend to lunch? Our treat."

She smiled in relief. "And," my husband continued, "I think I can give you all the information again you need to find your painter..." as we walked out of the courtroom.

I just love that man.

Age Is Just A Number

I visited a nursing home with a women's group from my church. We brought pan dulce (sweet bread), fruit, juice, and a large variety of presents on a Saturday morning.

Spending time with them, giving out presents, and singing Christmas carols together filled our agenda for the morning.

I loved that it did not smell like incontinence or decay. It was clean and plenty of morning sunlight warmed the area.

The people gathered in the activity room looked happy and pleasant. We set to work passing out the food. I love visiting with elderly people and hearing their stories, so this was a plum assignment for me. I got to spend time at each table visiting while I passed out fruit. Some shook my hand and engaged in lively conversation with me, some smiled, and some were just comfortable in their wheelchairs.


One rotund man with a University of Texas Santa hat on his head clapped his hands when I got to his table. I pulled over the fruit and greeted them. He stuck out his hand, so I clasped it in greeting. His grip tightened and I realized he wasn't going to let go as he talked with me. I was wearing boots with 3 1/2" heels and so I was tottering over him and holding a plate of fruit when he pulled me down towards him, telling me to sit on his lap. I lost my balance for a moment, teetered, and almost bit the dust. I regained it though, and was able to put the fruit down and pull my hand away from him in one motion.

My face was as red as the scarlet skirt I was wearing as I made my way to the next table. The ladies there were sweet and told me the man in the UT Santa hat was quite the ladies' man. I assured them I was married and wasn't looking.

The gathering ended with all of us singing carols together. A couple of the residents had tears running down their faces because they loved these songs so much and had such wonderful memories attached to them.

As we packed up to leave, a beautiful woman scooted over in her wheelchair to a clear place and motioned me to come over to her. As I pulled up a chair next to her, she shook her head a little and said, "It really means a lot that you all would come out here. It really does," she continued. She dabbed at her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief.

Her thick hair was a glowing white, her nails were expertly done, and she wore jewelry with flair. She wasn't dressed in a robe as some of the others were, but in a chic jacket and slacks outfit. Her makeup was fresh and done with a practiced hand. Even her slippers were blinged out.

I was touched and looked into her face so I could see her eyes. I was startled as I realized I knew her. She was Miss Estelle, who owned an elegant dress shop in town I used to visit with my mom when I was a little girl.

"Oh, Miss Estelle, how are you?" I asked. Mentally, I tried to calculate her age. She had to be in her nineties by now.

"It's been a hard year, to tell the truth. You know, my Tom, my sweetheart, passed away four years ago. Missy, who was our only child, passed away from cancer at the beginning of this year. She never had kids, and I'm the only one left of my seven sisters. I didn't think the end of my life would be like this."

My heart squeezed for her. "I'm so sorry to hear that, Miss Estelle." It was hard for me to think of anything appropriate to say, so I patted her hand.

"I can't change those things. I'm here, and I'm thankful for every day I have. I'll just have to buck up and bear through this. My mom was like that, and I'm like her. I will be OK, although it will be new territory for me."

"Miss Estelle, you look truly beautiful. I remember how well you always dressed, and you certainly still do," I told her.

She smiled. "Really, each day is a gift. It wouldn't do me any good at all to go around sloppy and frumpy. Every day I open my eyes, I'm going to give it the best I've got. I may be in this place now, but that doesn't mean I should quit living." She punctuated it with a smile and a nod.

As we wrapped up our conversation, I hugged her goodbye. I was deeply grateful for the rich lessons.

We made our way to the front door and the man in the UT hat was waiting by the exit. He clapped his hands when he saw us and called for me to come to him. One hand patted his lap while the other motioned me over.

I hustled to the front of our group and out the door as I called goodbye to him. More than one resident of this place still loved to live life fully.

Romeo

We recently took a field trip to a museum in a nearby city. Our bus driver, Bob, has been with us many years and although over 80 years old, is quite active and sound in mind and body. He is a World War II vet and his stories of that time are fascinating. I secretly have always felt a little sorry for him since he lives alone and what must be a fairly solitary existence since his children all live out of state.

We arrived at the museum and were greeted by a well dressed woman who looked to be in her 70's. "I am Ms. J. (names have been changed) and this is my assistant docent, Ellie," she said. Ellie was another refined looking woman who was probably in her late 60's.

On our way in, we also met the retired woman who volunteered in the museum gift shop, Betty.  Betty greeted us warmly as we filed past.

The students enjoyed themselves as we toured the museum with Ms. J. and Ellie as our guides. We found out Ms. J. was a widow whose husband had served in the diplomatic corps overseas. They had many adventures in their duty posts which she cheerfully shared. Ellie was also a widow who'd moved south for the eternal warmth we enjoy.

It was so warm, in fact, that Bob left his vantage point by the harbor we'd parked next to and came inside as the the kids swarmed the gift store.

He stationed himself near the gift shop and looked to be enjoying his conversation with Betty, the lady in charge of the gift shop. My co-teacher and I lost ourselves in monitoring the students and looking through the gift shop ourselves.

I felt a tapping on my shoulder and turned around. It was Ms. J.

"I...I want to ask you something, " she said with a bit of hesitation.

"Sure," I said. "What is it?"

"Well, I was wondering...your bus driver...is he..is he.. married? I didn't see a ring on his hand."

I was a bit surprised, but I answered, "No,  Bob's wife died several years ago and he's never remarried."

Her face brightened with a large smile as she nodded her thanks and made a direct line to where Bob was sitting, talking with Betty.

I saw my co-teacher and whispered to her, "You'll never believe what Ms. J. asked me!"

She laughed and said, "Wait till you hear what Ellie just asked me!"

I told her what Ms. J had asked about Bob, and she replied, "Ellie asked me if Bob was taken! I wasn't sure what she meant, so she asked again if he was seeing anyone- I couldn't believe it!"

Our gaze turned discretely to Bob, who was now surrounded by Ms. J., Ellie, and Betty. They all looked like high school girls, vying for the attention of the captain of the football team. Bob was in his element, laughing, joking, and obviously enjoying the company of these three women.

Betty, the gift shop volunteer, commented after she returned to the counter to ring up my purchases, "Your bus driver is so funny!" Her eyes cast shyly downward for a moment. "He is such a flirt!" Her cheeks flushed with color as she grinned.

Even as we were loading the kids back on the bus, the women were still chatting Bob up, although he was trying to get out the door.

Later, after we were on the road and the kids were happily connected to their Ipods, I teased Bob. "You really had those ladies' attention!"

"Not to be bragging, but they were after me, " he confided.

I was about to agree with him that some women are shameless in their pursuit of men when he continued.

"In fact, I have a date with one of them tonight- with the one who led your tour. Then, Ellie asked me to attend a church dinner with her on Saturday night and Betty invited me over to her house for a home cooked meal next week."

He added, "It's kind of hard to squeeze it all in right now as I'm sort of seeing two other ladies, but it will be fun."

I won't be feeling sorry for him anymore.

The Nursing Home Escapee- Freedom Reigns!

It was a strange sight this morning. Traffic was backed up for several blocks and I could see police cars in front of the jam, lights pulsating. An ambulance was also parked nearby, with EMT's standing close, their eyes trained on the road.

Oh no, I thought. An accident, and it looks like it must be bad.

Cars were very slowly being directed around the disturbance in the road. When I got close enough to see, there was no overturned car, no glass in the road, in fact nothing like that at all.

It was a lone elderly man, steering his motorized scooter squarely down the middle line of the road. He was wearing a hospital gown and had a small U.S. flag flying from an antenna on the back.

Two policemen on either side walked alongside, talking and gesturing intently at him. The old man sported only a toothless grin on his face and looked resolutely forward, as if the cops didn't exist. It was when I spotted the van from a local nursing home parked on the side of the road that it began to make sense.

The little man had made his escape from the nursing home, riding as fast as his small scooter chair would allow.

The policemen, to their credit, were trying to reason with him to get him to stop, instead of using brute force.

Oh, how I wish I'd had my camera or my phone with me.

By now, a few people had lined up on both sides of the road. They clapped and cheered the man as he moved past them. That made him raise his hands in a Rocky type victory salute as he momentarily loosed his grip on the steering handle.

My last view of him before I had to turn off the road was of his bent back, still moving forward in the chair, the sweating cops still walking beside him, and his American flag, still fluttering proudly in the breeze. He was celebrating his moment of freedom, no matter how brief.

Let freedom ring! Happy Fourth.