Recyclables : A Grandma Story

A short story by Ann Marie Grumm,  2014
To help the clean up, I take home all the recyclables from Lorianne's Hangar 18 parties.  I separate all the tin, glass and plastic.  I store the deposit items in the shed.  One sunny day, I put three white kitchen garbage bags filled with cans and bottles into the trunk of the car and drove around with them for at least a week. On the way home from grandma's doctor's office, we saw a man walking along the shoulder of Union Boulevard.  He was pushing a shopping cart loaded with black garbage bags.  Up ahead of him, I pulled over and asked grandma's permission to do what I was about to do.  I wasn't sure if she really understood, but she was acquiescent.   

I waited for him to reach the spot in which we were blocking his path.  He was a gray haired man and I felt it was important that I let him know immediately, I meant no harm.  I approached him with a big smile.  After a quick agreement, I retrieved my white bags and rearranged the big black bags to place the white bags neatly into and onto his cart.  He was thankful.  

Returning to the vehicle, I thought how surprising it was that grandma would allow me to pull over on such a main road, open my door, and walk along the shoulder like that !!!  Thus, when I got back in the car I thanked her richly. Grandma expressed how she thought that was "nice of me."  I said, "I get those things from you."  I told her, whenever anyone compliments me for doing nice things like that, I always say, "I get it from my mother"

Life can be good sometimes

Water For Elephants

A book review by Ann Marie Grumm, 2013
In addition to contemplations about aging and old age, there are some really tender moments and some pretty raw moments in this book !!  

Alternating between being in his early 90's and in a nursing home to being in his early 20's with the circus (whenever he nods off), our main character, the protagonist, is developing a simpatico with one of his nurses.   

"What, now I have no sense of humor?"

But I am grumpy. Grumpy because maybe I don't.  I don't anymore.  I'm so used to being scolded and herded and managed and handled that I am no longer sure how to react when someone treats me like a real person.


P176
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Chapter 8, 5, 1

Age is a terrible thief. Just when you're getting the hang of life, it knocks your legs out from under you and stoops your back.  It makes you ache and muddies your head and silently spreads cancer throughout your spouse.

I use to think I preferred getting old to the alternative, but now I'm not sure.  Sometimes the monotony of bingo and sing-alongs and ancient dusty people parked in the hallway in wheelchairs makes me long for death.  Particularly when I remember that I'm one of the ancient dusty people, filed away like some worthless tchotchke.

But there's nothing to be done about it.  All I can do is put in time waiting for the inevitable, observing as the ghosts of my past rattle around my vacuous present.

Walter : A True Story

Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Subject: Walter : A True story

Alzheimer's . . . His name is Walter . . . Slouched over in his chair, he seemed to be sleeping, like many others in the room. The Day Room. I touched his shoulder to greet him hello. No reaction. Then I grasped his shoulder, "Hello Walter! It's Annie." I was surprised he still feels so sturdy. I started to work his shoulder, moving down the bicep. Still pretty meaty. I moved my hand around to his back, stroking between his shoulder blades, very gently, allowing the tips of my fingers to touch into the tender spots.

Joan, Walter's wife, had been speaking with one of the nurses. "It's time to go," she commanded. She was concerned for me. Didn't want me to be late for my afternoon appointment. "Oh no," I replied, "he seems to be responding." I could feel him moving. Pressing against the hand that was caressing his back. An unfolding. Walter was pushing against me. My hand. Ever so gently. Not before long, both Joan and the nurse were both so taken aback. Greatly surprised.

With eyes still closed, Walter was sitting upright in his high back chair !!

He has been slumped over for years now! Then, I heard the women talking about how Walter doesn't open his eyes much anymore. Almost immediately, his eyes POPPED open. As if to prove them wrong. It would be like Walter to shame them. He looked directly at me. His eyes were crystal clear. Blue. Does he know who I am? Does he remember me? Would he be embarrassed that I was touching him so tenderly. So affectionately. Walter's face started contorting, working his jaws, his lips, as if he were cleaning the food caught in his teeth, his gums. Rolling his head to and fro, obviously requiring much effort. Efforting to work forgotten muscles. "Remember how he used to smile," one of the women said so endearingly. Then, he raised his head, still looking intently, right at me, he smiled !!! However brief, it was a smile, we all agreed.

My hand was still upon his back, the tips of my fingers still working the contours. I told him that we came today to bring some warm clothes, the seasons are changing and we're taking his laundry home so Joan can wash everything. I told him that Joan broke her foot, that I had an appointment at the library, Joan will return tomorrow for a visit.

Walter's eyes were completely fixed on me as I left the room.

Old Age Shuffle

Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Subject: Joe : A True Story

In separate cars, we entered the parking lot. I was able to find parking near the end of the lot. I walked toward the front of the building and came upon Joe. Keys in hand, he was just getting out of his car. In his car, my mom has one of those handicap parking signs that you hang from the rearview mirror. Thus, he parked in Handicap. Front Row. "Great!" I thought, "we can walk in together."

We began our approach to the entrance. Joe was shuffling along like an old man. Since I've known him, Joe has always been so agile. I realized I haven't been paying close attention to my parents for quite some time now. "How old are you now?" I inquired. He told me he was 88, reminded me that they had recently celebrated the birthdays in February. He and his sister, Bev. They share the same birthdate. Same day, different years.

I was overcome with a feeling of helplessness. He was walking like such an old man. I will have to report this sudden sign of aging to Gregg and Debbie. "Joe," I asked with great concern, "do you realize you are walking differently than usual?" I don't remember how he responded to that question. Perhaps he acknowledged with a yes. I specifically asked him, "when did you start walking like this?" Joe replied, "Just after I hung up the handicap sign."

The Pocketbook Crises (the plural of crisis) : A Grandma Story

Reluctantly, I would get involved in the search. The bedroom, the bathroom, the dining room chairs, her desk chair.  She'd find it.  I'd find it.   Under the bed, under the pillows, in the closet.  I soon learned all the hiding places.  So I thought.

The phone goes missing for days at a time.  I've found it in a drawer, in a zipped up suitcase, in the pocketbook !!

She wonders out loud, "Where's my pocketbook?"  Promptly, she elicits everyone into the search, "
Has anyone seen my pocketbook?" 

Hastily, she opens my bedroom door and sticks her head inside the room.  "Annie !!!!  Have you seen my pocketbook?  I've looked everywhere!"

I choose not to be dragged into the drama but Joe implores, "All her cards are in there!"


A small purse contains her license and several important cards . . Two Boston Scientific cards, the medicare card and a TFCU card.

"My life is in there!"