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| Mom and Me |
This past week, I moved my mom into an independent living
facility. It’s a lovely place, full of well-earned luxuries and friends she
already knows. And I feel better knowing she’s in an apartment with a daily check-in
and health facilities directly on campus.
After our big moving day, we enjoyed dinner in the
company of two of her friends, Anne and Harold Hall. Harold is 90-years-old and
Anne wouldn't elaborate beyond telling me she’s in her 80's. It is a woman’s prerogative, after all.
With a cozy knit hat pulled over her head and a warm coat and thick sweater on,
even in the warmth of the restaurant, she cut quite a figure.
Clusters of four to five people sat at the various tables,
each dressed up, some more than others, the ladies' hair fully coiffed. Some
were quite able-bodied; others were stooped or used a cane or walker to help
them negotiate. But as they sat at the tables, they were just friends. Laughter
and soft talking settled on the air adding to the dining ambiance. Scattered here and
there were a few of us “young folks”—visiting family. When you eat with people in their 80's and
90's, 48 gets to be young!
Anne sat next to me, never removing her coat, picking over
the roll and butter, dubious of how everything was cooked. Harold and Anne have been married for over 60
years. He is hard of hearing, but he didn’t need to hear his wife’s words. They
communicated through looks and smiles.“She doesn’t like anything on the menu,”
he says with a small smile. “They don’t quite cook anything to her liking. I think
it’s all right, though.”
She rolls her eyes, a tip of her tongue darting out and
makes a face at him. She turns to me. “We
used to live in Denver, you know. When was that, Harold?” she asks.
He looks up, calculating the years and decades that have
gone by. “Well, it was shortly after we were married.”
“I was pregnant and had one child already. We had six kids, you know.”
“That was over 60 years ago,” he finishes. “We lived out where that theater shooting
occurred.”
“Aurora,” I complete for him, remembering the tragedy that
has forever changed so many lives.
“Right,” he says. “Of course, at the time, there was nothing
out there. We were the first development. I think our house is still there. We
built it ourselves.” It’s hard to imagine that area of Denver ever being remote
or undeveloped.
Anne moves on to another topic. “Harold flew cargo planes in
WWII,” she tells me. “He flew from Washington to Alaska to deliver supplies. We
were lucky. He never saw any combat. But he wasn't allowed to talk to the
Russians stationed there. They could never talk to them.”
I try to pry for more information. This is a part of our history
almost completely gone. But Anne has moved on to poking at her pork loin. “They
didn't bring me the gravy I asked for."
I look around at the balding and gray heads, the lines
finely etched in their faces, and envy the easy friendships they share with
each other. As people pass by, Harold or Anne grab and arm or a hand and
introduce my mom, the new kid on the block.
I wonder what I’ll be like should I be fortunate to live
into my 80's or even, like Harold, to be 90. He still goes to the business he
started and owned, the one his sons now continue. Every morning Anne gets him
up, feeds him breakfast, and someone comes by to pick him up so he can put in a
day at the office. Maybe this sense of having to be somewhere, watching his
sons carry on the family business, gives him a reason to keep smiling.
“Are you going to get the ice cream?” Anne asks me. “It’s
Hershey’s – the very best.” She launches into a story about, Mildred, her best
friend for over 60 years, who recently passed away, and their youthful adventures
of going to Isaly's, a Pittsburgh institution, for ice cream sundaes. “We’d get
every topping they had—caramel, chocolate, marshmallow.” She smiles, and I can
almost see the kid in her again. But her
eyes flicker briefly with sadness. It must be difficult to lose life-long
friends. The hazard of living long enough.
I hope as I age, my stories aren't lost. I hope I find
myself among fine company and mostly, I hope my kids tolerate my quirks and
oddities. I might just wear my winter
coat and hat to the dinner table too.
