“Have we met before?” My mother and I smiled at the query that we heard every night.
At precisely at 9:45 pm Iris wandered the halls of the nursing home. Just prior to “lights out” she traveled her routine journey: room-to-room, nurses’ station to nurses’ station, Wing A to B to C. The strap around her waist was attached to her wheelchair, a getup that identified her as an Alzheimer’s patient.
“So she don’t fly the coop,” my mother’s roommate explained.
“What are you doing, Ms. Iris?” I asked when the confused woman steered herself into Mema’s room and began riffling through the closet.
“I’m getting my stuff,” she replied. Iris removed Mema’s favorite blue sweater and a pair of chocolate brown jogging pants and stuffed them into her wheelchair basket.
“But those are Mema’s things. Your clothes are in your room on A Wing.” I explained.
“Come in and let’sa talk about Italiano cooking,” Mema distracted while I removed the coveted items and returned them to their hangers.
“I love Eye-tal-yun food!” Iris mouthed through a toothless grin.
My mother displayed a knack for striking up a conversation with anyone, young or old, friend or stranger. I hated to bring her to Wal-Mart, because she invariably would spend forever talking with people in line while I hurried to do her shopping and finish other chores of a caretaker daughter.
Mema often reminded me. “Everybody hasa something important to say; justa listen, filia mia.”
She gave equal time to the acne-faced cashier, dirty homeless man or bratty six-year old. Tonight she calmed Iris’ manic ravings with lasagne recipes. Their animated dialogue covered the distance from food, to family and the ever-present subject, bowel movements.
I interrupted their chitchat and laughter, “Ms. Iris, time to go back to your room.”
“G’night Mema, g’night…. what’s your name?” she mumbled. “Have we met before?”
“Lucy,” I said as I wheeled her across the room.
Iris snatched my wallet, keys and sunglasses lying on top of the rollaway table. Making eye contact, I asked, “What are you doing now?”
“I’m just getting my stuff!”
“This is my stuff!” Goodness, I thought, I sound just like Iris.
Two narrow yellowed eyes stared into mine. A gnarled finger poked me in the nose. Iris’ voice was shrill yet steady, “When they put me here, they took away all my stuff. One day they’ll take away your stuff, too!”
Mema would be coming home in just two more days, hurrah! The daily forty-five minute drive after work to the Life Care Center and the half hour drive back to my house had taken its toll on me. Soon I would need a bed at the center myself if I did not get some needed rest.
My tired eyes fought sleep on the entire drive back to the beach. For once I welcomed the visual pollution of annoying billboards. One brash sign blinked an ad for the latest in German auto engineering, Zoom, Zoom. Another flew past me: buy the latest phone, the one with the most Apps. More invitations for gotta haves—jewelry, condos, and haute couture.
Lots of stuff. Expensive stuff. All just stuff.
“Lucy, let’s go to the Town Center and spend some moola.” It was Tuesday shopping day after all. For once I declined the invitation from my colleagues. “No thanks, I’m eating a bag lunch at work today.”
The exotic whiff of Dezso’s spicy sandwich greeted me at the picnic table. He had been my maintenance man for two years and I knew nothing about him.
“That smells good. What’re you eating?” I asked.
“Bratwurst with sauerkraut,” he said through a mouthful. “My Mama teach me to make.”
“Want to try my Eggplant Parmagiana?” I offered, “My own Mama’s special recipe.”
We traded more than taste treats that day. I met him again, for the first time.
“Tell me about life in Hungary,” I invited.
“Vell, Mees Lucy, it goes like this. One day, when I was 16, a friend he ask me, ‘Dez you want to go to America?’ I say, ‘Sure, why not?’ I did not know I had to walk across five countries, dodge bullets, and almost starve. But here am I, in the U S of A!”
Cyndi Lauper belted out the oldie on Dezso’s ancient boom box, “Girls just wanna have fun.” I thought about Mema and Iris’ giggling chatter the evening before and smiled. I guess there’s a hint of truth in these saccharine trite lyrics.
And, courtesy of those two Golden Girls, I gained some essential words to live by…
People are most important. Things are just stuff!
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Living my personal mission statement, “Each One, Teach One,” my greatest blessing is being the mother of two, grandmother of three and a lifelong educator. A graduate of UF and UNF, I am the former principal of St. Paul’s Catholic School in Jacksonville Beach, Florida and executive director of Tree Hill Nature Center in Jacksonville.
Since retirement my avocation is now my vocation – freelance writing. The technical writing of past professional life evolved into more creative genres of poetry, short fiction and memoir. My goal is to invoke the entire spectrum of human emotions in my reader: longing to laughter, pain to promise, despair to discernment.
One Response
Love this most excellent read. Reminds me of spending time with mom when she was in the assisted living facility. We did talk food and recipes a lot.