Sunday, April 10, 2005
I would knock on your door. "Come on in," you would say. You left it cracked all the time so you wouldn't have to open it. I would bring you a cup of coffee. HALF of a cup to be precise. And then I plopped on your loveseat.
"Adjust those blinds." And so I would reach up and adjust them to the precise location. HALF way down the window. No more, no less.
"Been reading the paper today, Aunt Frances?"
"Oh, you know, I always read the paper everyday. "
"What's going on in the news?"
"Well, I have only read the obituaries. I read it first thing every morning to make sure that I am not in them." I crack up. This joke never gets tiresome to me. Some of her jokes do get tiresome... like when she calls you names. You sit there thinking, did she mean that? And then you think, oh well, she's certainly been called names too. She is after all over 90.
Funny enough, as she ages, she becomes a little nicer over all. I hear horror stories from caretakers, but to me she has gotten nicer. I used to live in dread fear of Aunt Frances. She was a blend of generousity, crankiness, goodheartedness, pluckiness, and just plain an individual through and through. She was a little paranoid. She might think you were sitting there coveting over all her trinkets, that you were after her money. It would have been maddening except that she was virtually penniless. But if she sensed any pity, you would probably get called a name. Her closet was packed full of clothes and shoes, and her bank account was empty.
You see, I didn't really get to know Aunt Frances until she was over 90. Before that we just had a little contact here and there. She might come to a birthday party or we might have lunch, but it wasn't until she started slowing down that we really got to talk. And when when I finally got to know her, I realized that there was no need to live in mortal fear of her. I think I downgraded it to a kind of awe. An awe of a spirit so spunky and so plucky that she had people hopping even if she was flat on her back.
Yes, she did say some HORRIBLE things. Too horrible to repeat. But she also let Noah crawl all over her and asked him to sit by her and she would say, "He's fine. Leave him alone." She was craving the chubby attentions of a child and he fit the bill. She welcomed Andy in too and fell in love with him immediately. You see, I never KNEW Aunt Frances as a young person. So in my mind, she is the lady who would drive with me to buy chocolate. She is the friend who was picking her teeth in my car once and picked it clean out of her mouth. She would say, "You are so good to me. We've really gotten to be such friends." And I would sit there and think, how can I like this 90 year old grouch so much?
A month ago she cracked a joke with Scott. Somehow we were talking about how Scott had been enjoying trying some new wine. He had fallen in love with red wine when we had been in Italy.
"Be careful with that stuff."
"Oh," he said laughing, "I only drink about this much." Holding his fingers an inch apart.
"You mean that much in a washtub?" We sat there mulling it over. Then the joke hit us and we started laughing huge deep laughs from our stomachs. She still had the old vim and vigor. She won't get up. She won't take a bath. She can't remember our names. But she can reduce us to uncontrollable laughter.
I used to be a little embarrassed to eat with her at Heather Manor downtown. She would pull the staff or waitress over. "You see this guy?" (pointing to Scott) "He works in that big tall building over there." (pointing to the Principal buildings) "He's pretty hot stuff down there." We would blush in embarrassment. Yeah, she probably wished she would have been born into the Rockefeller family. But she was born in Attica, Iowa. She grew up, she educated herself. She taught in a one room schoolhouse. She survived three husbands. She did what she wanted. She said what she wanted. She ate what she wanted. She lived where she wanted. She controlled her destiny to the end. She lived to the ripe old age of 95. She had moxie. She had chutzpah. She was the monolithic AUNT FRAN of my childhood. We were better for knowing her. And I kinda think she was better for knowing us.
You have lived a good life, Aunt Frances. As I have been watching you fade away I have tears and smiles. I remember that you are going away and that you will never again be in your little room at Valley View, but then I smile when I think of your jokes and your personality. I can't help but feel awkward as I try to help you through your last hours. I can't help but feel that I am not doing it right, that I am annoying you or not helping you enough. But know that you are loved. And every time I make macaroons, use your old collander, or see the exit for Guthrie Avenue, I will think of you and your life. Go to be with God now. I think they might need some help in heaven getting some things right. Maybe you should go tell them how it's done.
"Adjust those blinds." And so I would reach up and adjust them to the precise location. HALF way down the window. No more, no less.
"Been reading the paper today, Aunt Frances?"
"Oh, you know, I always read the paper everyday. "
"What's going on in the news?"
"Well, I have only read the obituaries. I read it first thing every morning to make sure that I am not in them." I crack up. This joke never gets tiresome to me. Some of her jokes do get tiresome... like when she calls you names. You sit there thinking, did she mean that? And then you think, oh well, she's certainly been called names too. She is after all over 90.
Funny enough, as she ages, she becomes a little nicer over all. I hear horror stories from caretakers, but to me she has gotten nicer. I used to live in dread fear of Aunt Frances. She was a blend of generousity, crankiness, goodheartedness, pluckiness, and just plain an individual through and through. She was a little paranoid. She might think you were sitting there coveting over all her trinkets, that you were after her money. It would have been maddening except that she was virtually penniless. But if she sensed any pity, you would probably get called a name. Her closet was packed full of clothes and shoes, and her bank account was empty.
You see, I didn't really get to know Aunt Frances until she was over 90. Before that we just had a little contact here and there. She might come to a birthday party or we might have lunch, but it wasn't until she started slowing down that we really got to talk. And when when I finally got to know her, I realized that there was no need to live in mortal fear of her. I think I downgraded it to a kind of awe. An awe of a spirit so spunky and so plucky that she had people hopping even if she was flat on her back.
Yes, she did say some HORRIBLE things. Too horrible to repeat. But she also let Noah crawl all over her and asked him to sit by her and she would say, "He's fine. Leave him alone." She was craving the chubby attentions of a child and he fit the bill. She welcomed Andy in too and fell in love with him immediately. You see, I never KNEW Aunt Frances as a young person. So in my mind, she is the lady who would drive with me to buy chocolate. She is the friend who was picking her teeth in my car once and picked it clean out of her mouth. She would say, "You are so good to me. We've really gotten to be such friends." And I would sit there and think, how can I like this 90 year old grouch so much?
A month ago she cracked a joke with Scott. Somehow we were talking about how Scott had been enjoying trying some new wine. He had fallen in love with red wine when we had been in Italy.
"Be careful with that stuff."
"Oh," he said laughing, "I only drink about this much." Holding his fingers an inch apart.
"You mean that much in a washtub?" We sat there mulling it over. Then the joke hit us and we started laughing huge deep laughs from our stomachs. She still had the old vim and vigor. She won't get up. She won't take a bath. She can't remember our names. But she can reduce us to uncontrollable laughter.
I used to be a little embarrassed to eat with her at Heather Manor downtown. She would pull the staff or waitress over. "You see this guy?" (pointing to Scott) "He works in that big tall building over there." (pointing to the Principal buildings) "He's pretty hot stuff down there." We would blush in embarrassment. Yeah, she probably wished she would have been born into the Rockefeller family. But she was born in Attica, Iowa. She grew up, she educated herself. She taught in a one room schoolhouse. She survived three husbands. She did what she wanted. She said what she wanted. She ate what she wanted. She lived where she wanted. She controlled her destiny to the end. She lived to the ripe old age of 95. She had moxie. She had chutzpah. She was the monolithic AUNT FRAN of my childhood. We were better for knowing her. And I kinda think she was better for knowing us.
You have lived a good life, Aunt Frances. As I have been watching you fade away I have tears and smiles. I remember that you are going away and that you will never again be in your little room at Valley View, but then I smile when I think of your jokes and your personality. I can't help but feel awkward as I try to help you through your last hours. I can't help but feel that I am not doing it right, that I am annoying you or not helping you enough. But know that you are loved. And every time I make macaroons, use your old collander, or see the exit for Guthrie Avenue, I will think of you and your life. Go to be with God now. I think they might need some help in heaven getting some things right. Maybe you should go tell them how it's done.
