Crazy Old Lady
An encounter with an angry old woman inspires a life change for a young woman who's dreams are going nowhere.
The old woman dropped her purse on the counter with a hefty thump. Then she rummaged through it with great vigor, mumbling profanities and glaring around at those disturbed by her presence. I watched her while hiding behind my stale BLT before returning to work. It was a shadow of a job as receptionist in a building foyer where few people entered. Landlord promises made that I could "start my own typing business" quickly died. My bank account dwindled as fast as my dreams of business success.
That crazy old lady ravaging her handbag stung like a slap in the face. I had to change my career direction fast, but because of her, a strange idea popped up as I walked out the café door.
The crinkle of newsprint echoed against the foyer walls as I perused the want ads and saw one for "choreworker." At first, it reminded me of an advertisement: "Unwed mothers wanted for light housekeeping." I often wondered what kind of slave trade lurked behind that ad and later learned they were trying to reach pregnant women for an adoption agency. This elderly clientele situation intrigued me, though.
An appointment with the county's In-Home Support department soon lined me up with ten clients who needed someone to help them with simple chores and errands. Sounded like a much needed break from my clerk/typist career. As soon as I arrived in Santa Cruz, CA from Salt Lake City, UT, a new Selectric II typewriter awaited me and I started my own typing service out of my apartment. I felt free at last to work a flexible schedule and enjoy more free time. Dreams soon faded under the heavy weight of the cost of living.
While I connected with interesting typing clients whom I continued to serve, I needed something that would bring in regular income. Housekeeping was literally a no-brainer. This job would also be fairly flexible as I could schedule the clients for my convenience as well as theirs. Win-win.
The response of my friends surprised me. I don't know why it did, though. We were all so ambitious. "I'm planning to … write a novel … play in a band … get my degree in … sail a boat to …. There were no prospective doctors/lawyers/dentists in my crowd, but we all had big dreams. Whenever I mentioned my new job, a long pause ensued, followed by a disappointed sigh. Their heads leaned to one side as they considered what they could possibly say.
"Oh, that's interesting. How much will you make doing that?"
"Well, that's a good interim job while you work on your novel … music … degree…."
And the kicker of all kickers, "Hey, you might work for some rich old lady who will leave you a fortune in her will."
Oh gee, I never thought of that. So, why would a rich old lady seek household help from the County?
I would invariably tell them I looked forward to meeting interesting people, helping those in need, and being of service. Most of my Santa Cruz friends were in a faith-based community, so wasn't that "be of service" ethic the core of their beliefs?
After a while, I didn't bother defending my obviously demented decision to clean up after old people for $3.25 an hour (in 1980). I would still need to shack-up with roommates and squeeze every cent into a meager lifestyle. Besides, all of us were in our early thirties, still building our lives from divorce or some kind of Boomer adolescent behavioral pattern that kept us for really going toward success rather than the hippie alternative lifestyle … (read: laziness.)
Up to that time, elderly people were a foreign species to me. My grandparents had died years before and had been distant toward me when alive. This "interim job," however, turned out to be the most satisfying job I'd had ever.
My little old ladies, and one old gentleman, became surrogates, so endearing and fascinating, I found it difficult to leave. For eighteen months, I felt the comfort of a family that gave love and appreciation rather than constructive criticism. I met their families, heard their stories, and learned who they were when they were starting out in life. They put their faces upon history, teaching me in a way that boosted my respect for the aged and the value of their wisdom. They are us as we will become in our final decades.
This essay is just an introduction to my clients. Next Thursdays, I will share vignettes of my grannies. Until then, here are three poems about some elders from outside In-Home Support.
Mabel Laughed Out Loud …
As the kitten clawed up the side of the chair
Perched on top like a lion hunkered to attack
Its tail whipping back and forth, the force
Of its energy ripping the cat from her stand
Toppling her to the cushioned seat below.
Mabel clapped her hands in delight
At the kitten's humiliation
Its head snapped around to glare
At her with blazing eyes of Siamese blue
Filled with vigor, outrage, and mischief
And a good dose of damnation.
When Tommy brought the kitten to her
Finding it dirty and wandering the street
The tiny beast made her final week
Month, whatever time was left to her
Free of the dread that hung, sodden
Upon the pallor of her days.
She still liked to eat the meals Tommy cooked
The yammering of daytime TV had long since
Waned into white noise against the walls
But there were times when Tommy wasn't there
And she left a trail of fecal to the bathroom
It was one of many embarrassments.
Tommy was a good man who helped her dress
And bathe, always treating her with respect
Sometimes he had to carry her to bed
He would lay her on the sheet as an old lover
Once did so many years ago. She could
Almost see his face emerge from memory
As if waiting there to take her hand
And guide her to their special place.
Suddenly she startled from her reverie
The kitten had pounced upon her knee
Tiny stiletto claws piercing her robe
It curled into a coil of fur in the nest
Of her lap and joined her in slumber.
Jamie’s Social Security Plan
She sits at table tapping the egg shell
scooping its contents into her mouth
as her teenage son explains
their agreement.
She’s promised to die before 80
‘cause I can’t keep her after that.
Her mouth purses around the egg
eyes closed halfway. Then she says
You see, I have this tea
to drink on me 80th birthday
then he plants me in the garden
to compost the roses.
Mayor of the Lunch Counter
He sits with cane looped over his arm
turns to join a conversation
from a nearby booth
he heard rattlesnake
launched an explanation
how a sidewinder chased his friend
how toxic they can be when young.
He tells me – sitting three stools away
wondering why I order my BLT with toast
that scrapes my gums –
how he lived in a canyon in Washington
where a bald eagle cruised the river
scooping a fish
only to have it stolen by an osprey.
He lingers in his chair,
whipped cream collapses on his chocolate shake.
His eyes fade with why he had to move here
and he tells me there are things you miss.
Published in Moonshine Ink, May 2007.
Thumbs 👍I'm getting closer to a nursing home every day. Mentally I'm all here. Physically cancer is taking it's toll. Technically I'm in remission but the drugs are making me a wreck. No children.
Wonderful, Sue, just wonderful. 😊