Hulda, Elisabetta and Babe: The Senior Sisterhood

Hulda, Elisabetta and Babe: The Senior Sisterhood

(Geezer Hood, Vortexia) – After a miraculous medical recovery, Grandma Babe is again enjoying the climes of independent living at her senior apartment complex. On her first day back to the group dining room her fellow residents actually applauded her return. Two of them in particular -- Hulda and Elisabetta – are women I secretly wish were my BFF’s.

Hulda, as her name implies, is a sturdy woman of Nordic or Germanic descent with a heart of gold. She limps along behind her walker with a smile soaked in sunshine, encouraging everyone she sees. She is the type of person you want to tuck in your purse and take home, like a puppy, for keeps.

“Oh, Babe!” she exclaimed, welcoming Grandma back into the fold. She leaned over her walker, and held Babe’s hand in hers. “We sure missed you around here. It’s so good to have you back again!”

Elisabetta, a gregarious Italian-American, exudes old-world charm and new-world vitality. Fairly tall for being in her 90’s, with perfect posture, olive skin, white hair, and a remarkable flair for fashion, she is at once both elegant and down-to-earth.

Whenever she greets Grandma, she cups her face in her hands and croons, “Ciao, Bella!”

True to her heritage, Elisabetta uses her hands to accentuate every sentence. One day, I noticed she stroked Grandma’s face about ten or fifteen times in the course of a five-minute conversation. Melting as I watched her, all I could think was, “Please, Elisabetta, speak Italian to me and stroke my face.” Oh, to be mothered again!

Of course, the male residents, not as verbose as the women, welcomed Babe back with a wink, a light slap on the back, or a clever pun meant to make her laugh. Since Grandma is still a tomboy at heart, they probably consider her “one of the guys” – something her female counterparts may, or may not, envy. I envy the camaraderie Babe has at her fingertips each day. She simply opens her door when she wants some social interaction and voila, there it is. It’s reassuring for her, and for us, to know she’s never alone.

Don’t get me wrong; senior living facilities aren’t perfect, though they would definitely make for an Emmy-winning sit-com. The same petty dramas exist there as in any living arrangement involving more than one person. There are the token grumps, hermits, and bellyachers. Gossips abound, and every once in awhile tempers flare. (Yes, elderly men are still capable of fist fights; apparently even miniscule levels of testosterone are deadly). One thing is certain, however; there’s always something happening at Babe’s place. Indeed, take age out of the equation and visiting a senior home feels just like walking into a high school. You can feel the buzz.

Despite the standard flaws in human nature present in senior communal living, it’s encouraging to see that the drive to love, comfort, protect, and share someone else’s burden, is equally tenacious. And realizing that sisterhood among women continues into old age is, well, one of the few comforting revelations I cling to as I’m dragged, kicking and screaming, down my own path of decrepitude.

Unsung Hero of the Month - November

Unsung Hero of the Month

November’s unsung hero is Kathy Huston of Lebanon, Oregon. This humble, indefatigable woman is part of the reason Grandma Babe (my 92-year-old mother-in-law) is still alive.

Several weeks ago, Grandma was completely incapacitated with a mysterious intestinal bug. After a week of taking care of her, followed by a few days in the hospital and a few days in rehab, she was finally able to return to her apartment at a nearby senior-living facility. But almost immediately, she came down with a bladder infection. By then, she was so weak and mentally undone, she wouldn’t/couldn’t take her meds and wouldn’t/couldn’t get out of bed. She needed help with absolutely everything.

Exhausted, and at our wits’ end, my husband and I wondered what we could do to avoid having to transfer our normally vibrant grandmother into assisted living. Several different temporary nursing/caretaking services were cost prohibitive, and therefore, out of the question.

Then, I remembered Kathy telling me she loved visiting old people. When I asked her if she could check in on Grandma twice a day, early morning and late evening, for a week, she said “yes” without skipping a beat. Not only did Kathy faithfully do this for us, but she went above and beyond our needs by befriending Grandma, spending extra time with her. What an incredible difference it made for us, to be able to help Grandma during the day knowing Kathy was there every morning and night. And what a difference it made to Grandma, knowing there was an angel coming to see her every day and lift her spirits.

Through it all, I discovered that, in her private life, Kathy not only visits the elderly on a regular basis, but she volunteers in a score of other areas of the public sector also. I’ve known Kathy for years, and didn’t know this. Why? Because Kathy Huston is the real deal when it comes to having a servant’s heart; she loves in secret.

As if Kathy’s giving character were not enough to commend, she is by nature one of the sweetest people I’ve ever known, and I use the adjective “sweet” in the most complimentary, exemplary way possible.

So, here’s to you Kathy. May you be blessed ten-fold for the blessing you’ve been to me!

The Funambulist and Her Band of Buffoons

>

The Funambulist and Her Band of Buffoons

(Les Crunches, Vortexia) -- Kim, the vivacious Group Power instructor at the gym I belong to, is a saucy little spitfire whose irrepressible personality makes working out not only bearable, but actually fun. That this 30-something, single mother of four is astonishingly fit was incentive enough for me to take her class. Who in their right mind wouldn’t drag themselves out of bed every morning in the hope of attaining a body like hers? (Madness, I know, but who says women are sane when it comes to their body image?)

Of course, it would be easy to envy this effusive dynamo, this impulsive, beautiful woman with her dazzling smile and infectious laugh, this human pretzel who can contort her body into any shape, lift as much weight as a man, do hand stands with one arm and dance like a female Michael Jackson. Next to her I feel like a centenarian on Prozac. But Kim is also as playful, transparent and vulnerable as a ten-year old; so not loving her is simply not an option.

Another element at play in this scenario is small-town life. Here, if everyone doesn’t know everyone, we at least know of someone who does. In other words, when it comes to relationships, we hit the ground running, and by necessity, we are our own entertainment. Add to this picture the group of diverse women taking Kim’s class – savvy young girls, gossip-hungry moms, mid-life fugitives, renegade retirees – and you see why my group power classes are never, ever, ever, dull.

During our workout the other day, for example, Kim announced that her current boyfriend, and several of his friends, had dressed as Ghostbusters for Halloween, posting their pictures on Facebook.

“So, you know I don’t tell nasty jokes, right?” she asked, the droll tone of her voice a sure sign we were in for another one of her legendary stories.

Straining to lift our weights in time to the music, we all nodded in agreement. It was true; we had never heard her tell an off-color joke. Almost never. Not really off-color.

“Well, I made a comment on his Facebook page,” she continued, “telling him I’d seen an apparition in my bedroom and I that I was going to call and have them come over to take care of it. It was a joke.”

She paused for effect, and then indignantly blurted, “He deleted my comment because he said it was too racy! Can you believe that?”

“I must be dense,” I muttered, laboring through my lunges. “I don’t get how he thought that was ‘racy.’”

“Yeah,” a chorus of female voices agreed. “He’s the one with a dirty mind. Ach, men! They…”

Phillip, the lone male in our class, blushed. We bantered back-and-forth for a minute, wickedly relishing poor Phillip’s discomfort.

Kim picked up two fifteen-pound weights, flexing her perfectly toned biceps. “Well, thank you!” she chirped. “It was a totally innocent comment. You know, his response is just another sign that we aren’t very compatible. I broke up with him once before and he talked me into getting back with him. Now I’ll have to break up with him all over again.”

Was she kidding?

After we finished our reps, Terry, a straight-talking former social worker, set her weights down with a sigh. “If you’re going to break up with your boyfriend, Kim,” she said, her expression completely deadpan, “just text him back and tell him it wasn’t an apparition after all, so you won’t need his help.”

Group buffoonery; the best sport of all…and, oh, so therapeutic. Just don’t be looking for me to bare my soul at the gym anytime soon.

UNSUNG HERO OF THE MONTH

Sandra Byrd

My October Unsung Hero is dear friend and best-selling author Sandra Byrd of Seattle, Washington. Three dozen of her books have been published, including the Secret Sisters and Friends for a Season series; an amazing accomplishment.

Her adult fiction novel, Let Them Eat Cake, was a Christy Award finalist. The third book in that series, following Bon Appétit, is the newly released Pièce de Résistance.

Sandra rates as a hero because of her integrity, determination and perseverance in the publishing industry, her devotion to God and her family, and her grace, compassion and generosity as a human being. When I first met Sandra at a writer’s conference in Colorado, she befriended me – a virtual nobody – and voluntarily took me under her writer’s wing. It was her selfless encouragement and inspiration that provided me with the confidence necessary to pursue my own dream of being a published author. I highly recommend you visit Sandra at www.sandrabyrd.com and check out her books while you’re at it. Sandra, this one’s for you!

A "Meet the Parents" Moment

A "Meet the Parents" Moment

(Poetic Justice, Vortexia) – Remember my husband’s run-in with the long arm of the law? (See August 6). Well, this month he had another run-in; this time with our future son-in-law. It was a scene right out of “Meet the Parents.”

Dave, as you’ll recall, is an intrepid driver, the guy you want behind the wheel in an emergency. He is also extremely proud of his driving record, having never been in an accident. That is, he’s never been in an accident in public. Here at home it’s another story.

Case in point: Years ago, I was in the house cooking when suddenly I was startled by a loud crash coming from our covered wood shed. I ran to the window to see the front end of our ’68 Chevy pickup sticking out the other end of the building and Dave standing nearby half-dazed. He told me he had started the truck and then been surprised by a yellow jacket in the cab (he’s allergic to their sting). As he bailed out of the rig, he somehow pressed on the accelerator. Defending his male ego, he blustered that anyone would have done the same thing. I mean, who in their right mind would turn off the ignition before jumping from a moving truck when a killer bee is poised to strike?

My own vehicular stupidities are not so easily rationalized away. Like the time I rushed out at night to go to a meeting and didn’t think to look in my rear-view mirror before backing up. Our pastor, who had come to visit us, had parked his brand new Honda right behind our car. I put the car in reverse, gunned the engine and T-boned our pastor’s car, doing hundreds of dollars of damage to it. It took me a good ten minutes to work up the courage to go back into the house and break the news to him. That was a difficult one to live down.

But I digress. Back to Dave.

It is vital to this story to inform you, at this juncture, that Big Time Dave is a perfectionist; someone who has all their ducks in a row. He takes his sweet time with everything and is circumspect in all he does. He is an engineer after all; his genes scream order, regimentation, functionality. For example, he’s the self-appointed family valet parking attendant. As such, he is very particular about where all the cars in our circular driveway are parked (for reasons only he understands; we simply indulge his professorial whimsies). And having never forgotten my run-in with our pastor’s Honda, he has long made it his duty to remind us all of the dangers of parking our cars in spots where someone might forget to look when backing up. Sensible enough, eh?

Well, the other night – while our future son-in-law Alex was here visiting our daughter -- my husband and I hopped into our car to go to town. Dave put the car in reverse, pressed hard on the accelerator, and backed up without looking. Bam! From the sound of the impact, you would have thought we’d totaled both our car and Alex’s. When Alex came out of the house, Dave – still in shock – sputtered some inanities about how he had warned everyone about the dangers of parking in certain areas of the driveway, how he knew this would happen some day, etc., etc.

Vindictive creature that I am, I took great delight in rubbing it in. “There’s no one to blame but yourself, Dave,” I snarked. “You should have looked in the rear-view mirror before backing up.”

Nearly a dozen passionate protestations later, he finally, albeit grudgingly and with caveats, admitted he alone was responsible for the collision. Miraculously, neither car suffered damage. Alex had forgotten to put his car in park, so when we backed into it, it actually rolled out of the driveway, over a railroad tie, and hit a post holding up our grape arbor. Fortunately, the post was rotten and when his car hit it, it gave way, absorbing the impact.

Poor Alex. Had this been the first visit to our home, he may – like Ben Stiller – have been tempted to run from the Neumann family as fast, and as far away, as he could. I wouldn’t have blamed him. After all, having your future father-in-law rant at you about where you parked your car in the driveway and worse, transferring blame for the accident to you, would terrify the most gallant suitor. But Alex is made of stronger stuff than that, and Dave – despite his eccentricities – is impossible not to like. His redeeming quality, he readily admits, is a great sense of humor. He’s a good man, a great father, and a hoot to boot. As he is wont to remind us when episodes like this arise, rather than judge him on his one – or two – minor character flaws, we should judge the “whole package.”

So hang in there Alex. You’re not only gaining a wife, but a whole package father-in-law as well. Isn’t that great? Oh, and don’t forget where to park your car next time you come over.

Angel and Demon: A Tale of Two Kitties

Angel and Demon: A Tale of Two Kitties

(LaPurr, Vortexia) – Being country folk, we’ve always had cats. Stella, one of our more recent ones, disappeared without a trace a year ago when, in a jealous rage, she boycotted our selection of a companion for her. She simply stalked off and never returned.

Important Stella history: The runt of the litter, she almost died when she was a kitten. Unfortunately, our heroic efforts to save Stella resulted in her suffering brain damage which manifested in a variety of psychoses, not the least of which was body dysmorphic disorder. Our pint-sized jet-black Stella seriously thought she was a panther. She stalked -- and killed -- snakes, rats and other animals larger than herself; animals a dog would run from. The offal she regularly deposited on our front porch was disgusting in the extreme. More than once, she climbed a100-foot-tall fir tree behind our house, refusing to come down for days. Indeed, she was so deranged, we actually breathed a collective sigh of relief when she disappeared.

Stella’s successor, Stu (the companion she loathed) is by far the best feline ever to grace our humble estate. He is handsome, clever, playful, winsome and lovable. In short, he is everything Stella was not. The only thing Stella and Stu shared in common – a cardinal quality any Neumann cat must have -- is that they were good mousers.

Which brings me to the present.

We began to worry when Stu suddenly no longer looked his dapper self. He began to roam at night. He acted distant. His tail looked creepy; as though he had stuck it in a light socket.

“Not to worry,” the vet assured us. “We call it ‘stud-tail.’ Time to get him neutered.”

Since ‘catting around’ is a cat’s unpardonable sin, and worse, his male drive was interfering with his ability to mouse properly, we made the dreaded appointment. Several days before Stu went under the knife, however, a black cat reappeared, spectre-like, on the edge of our field.

“It couldn’t be Stella,” we reasoned. But when she saw Stu she arched her back. When I reached for her, she hissed, bared her teeth at me, and stormed off into the woods as though she was the Queen of Sheba. It was Stella alright. A check with some neighbors revealed that Stella sightings have been occurring over the last few months at odd times, always ending with her running off before she can be repatriated.

So, Stu lost his manhood and is back home now. At least most of Stu is back (lol). Admittedly, there is some trepidation over the possibility that he could, like Stella, develop some post-surgery body image issues. He could turn into Garfield -- lazy, insolent, narcissistic – which, of course, would not do. An even bigger fear is that Stella will return, sense the change in her adversary and force Stu into being her personal eunuch.

Oh, the vagaries of cats!

Meanwhile, we watch and wait, on the lookout for a pair of green panther eyes shining at us wickedly from the woods at night. And we keep Stu close to home. Very close.

Grandma Update: She's Wearing Lipstick

Grandma Update: She’s Wearing Lipstick

(Golden Years, Vortexia) -- Grandma has made an extraordinary transformation. She’s wearing lipstick. At 92 years of age, it’s more than remarkable. It’s a sign.

With her beautiful Italian coloring, Tuscan blue eyes and white hair, grandma used to sport a splash of lipstick and on special occasions some subtle eye-shadow. She always dressed impeccably. But, when she turned 90 she stopped wearing makeup.

You see, my mother-in-law is an amazing woman, but her up-beat personality and zest for life weren’t enough to sustain her through trials the last two years have wrought. Among other things, she: 1) survived a ruptured gall bladder, 2) lost her husband, first to dementia and then to kidney failure, and 3) suffered a stroke which left her without any peripheral vision.

Not long ago my observant daughter asked her grandmother why she no longer wore make up.

“I’m too old,” explained Grandma with a shrug. “I guess I just don’t care anymore.”

Fellow Vortexians may recall that about a month ago Grandma moved into her own apartment in a nearby independent living facility. We all cried saying good-night to her the first night she stayed there. In all her life, she had never lived alone. Not that living in the senior facility is living alone, but….

It didn’t take long for her to make the adjustment and every time we see her or call her she looks and sounds…happy. Really happy. She actually has a bounce to her step again. Residents at the facility gravitate to her and she has her old charm back.

Yesterday when I visited her, she opened the door and I took a double take. She was wearing pink lipstick and a dusting of blue eyeshadow.

I won’t say what conclusion I, and my daughters, jumped to. After all, it’s just lipstick, right?