Catherine attracted men, drew them to her like the latest model sports car, with her classic good looks, smooth lines, glossy curves, supple skin, and a powerful engine. Her scent was not that of new car though, it was a subtle hint of France that came from a cut glass atomizer. Her fragrance was only a small part of her charm. She spent a lifetime honing her skill and even with advanced dementia, she practiced her craft with precision and a depth of proficiency that was buried so deep in her psyche that it survived the disorientation.

She mesmerized.  I watched her sometimes as she cocked her head to one side, and smiled at her catch, a male visitor or a student, never another resident of the nursing home.  She gained his attention with a lipstick framed smile and then pointed at him with a manicured finger whose nail was the same hue as her lips. She’d turn her hand over and beckon with an index finger in a come-hither crook. It never failed, never. The gentleman in question, magnetized by her magic, sauntered over to her wheelchair, bowed down to her, grasping that dainty hand in his and asked her what she needed.  She tittered, pulling her free hand to her mouth and lowered her eyes only to peer out at the man from under her lashes.  Sometimes a lost look of confusion brought him to her; sometimes it seemed nothing at all drew him near.

At eighty she maintained a relationship with a man on the outside. He was ten years her senior and drove twenty miles to visit her twice a week. He carried a wicker basket covered in a linen cloth in one hand, and a cane in the other. He dressed in tweed jackets, sported a silk tie and a pencil thin white moustache.  Catherine’s face broke into brilliance when she saw him. She’d lift her hand to her hair, as if to put stray pieces back into place, turn her face up to him, purse her lips and wait for him to bend down to the wheelchair and kiss her. “I’ve been waiting,” she’d say.

He’d locate a quiet corner for two. The cream colored linen cloth covered the top of a small institutional table. Crystal candlesticks, English china plates with pastoral scenes, sterling flatware, and cloth napkins graced a table in accordance with Catherine’s station, and for her pleasure. Her ease was the sound of her sigh as she spread the napkin in her lap.  The two of them conversed in quiet tones. At times the baritone of his laughter mixed with the lilt of hers and heads turned.

Years before, she had married a shipping magnate, and although she’d been divorced from that husband for years, and remarried several times, she kept his last name, not so much because she loved him, but because the prestige of his moniker served her well in her independent life as a graphic artist, writer, and world traveler. She grew up in small-town Ohio, not well-to-do,  but through her own ingenuity and tenacity, she  built a life and a name for herself.

I met her when she arrived at the nursing home, the angriest person I’d ever seen.

“Take your hands off me,” she hissed at the young nurse who’d come to show her to her room. Catherine jerked her elbow away from the smiling caregiver.  “I’m perfectly capable of walking independently.” She’d gathered the front panels of  her coat closer to her, adjusted the purse on her arm, lifted her chin, set her mouth in a straight line, and teetered on her heels down the hallway. No matter the approach from staff members, she maintained the upper hand, not letting them care for her without suffering the consequences of her forced immodesty.

Some caregivers sneered at her elevated sense of self, others smiled in admiration at her resolve.

She was a little over five feet tall, thin, with white hair, cut in a stylish bob. Her lipstick, eyeliner and rouge were impeccably applied. She didn’t leave her room without a glance in the mirror, a hand to her hair, or an adjustment to her silk scarf.  The memory of her appearance hadn’t escaped her, nor had her sense of style, a classic elegance, everyone admired. A mink stole hung in her closet; earrings, necklaces and rings vied for attention in her jewelry box and silk stockings shared a drawer with lacy under-things. She was not too old for romance.

In the end, her words lost all coherence, but her gestures and facial expressions maintained their meaning and charm. Catherine died Tuesday.

Her estranged son wanted none of her belongings. Staff members sat on Catherine’s bed, surrounded by her beautiful things. They held small scraps of fabric that had touched Catherine and cried. I couldn’t go into her room. It was too hard.  I’d remember our chats together over cups of tea and be happy for the memory.

That evening, when I left work, I found Catherine’s small pine lingerie chest beside the dumpster. It was falling to pieces, not much more than a pile of sticks and a few drawers. I couldn’t leave it there for the trash man to pick up.

I stacked the pieces in my car and carried them home.

Bruce met me at the garage and peered into the back of the car. “What have you brought home now?” He asked.

“I was hoping you and I could piece it back together.” I said.

He sighed as he’s done before when I’ve tried to hold onto a memory. He didn’t know Catherine, but he helped me unload the chest and we spent the evening interconnecting the parts, gluing the sections together, clamping and reinforcing that which had come undone.

I was wiping off the top with a soft rag when Bruce picked up one of the drawers to slide back into its place. He stopped and drew the rectangular box shape to his face. He closed his eyes and breathed in. “Perfume,” he said, looking at me.

“Catherine,” I answered.

I had spent the entire month of December finding volunteers to adopt each of my one hundred thirty nursing home residents. I like each to have a Christmas present to open from Santa. Churches, insurance groups, home companion services, the local University offices, and kind individuals took an elder’s name, bought a gift, wrapped it, and delivered it to the facility the week before Christmas.

That last week found us sorting, arranging and organizing the main event.  My gangly teenager, in the guise of Santa, visited and handed out presents. His red suit was stuffed with lumpy pillows and his beard kept slipping off his chin.  He mumbled under his breath so old ears couldn’t hear, “Jeez Mom, this stupid suit is hot, and the temperature in this place is turned up to a hundred.”

“Shhh,” I scolded, elbowing him in the ribs. “Santa is jolly, remember?”

“Why couldn’t Ben do it again?”

“I’ve done the Santa bit long enough,” Ben, my 6’6” elf said to his brother. “It’s your turn.”

My skinny Santa rolled his eyes, adjusted his pillows, and hiked up his pants. “Let’s go and get this over with,” he sighed.

My boys are good sports, and although Ryan was game,  his “Ho, ho, ho” needed a bit more bass and volume. For a first-timer he did alright. It’s a good thing the elders love him, and have watched him grow up. They are patient, kind, and found his presentation, “endearing.” The real Santa never received so many hugs and kisses.

By Christmas eve, we were all tired. I anticipated the weekend of Christmas for the days off from work, for a chance to finally put my feet up. My last week of vacation for the year started December 26th; and I was looking forward to some rest.

Then, my Mama sprung her gift, a week’s stay ocean-front on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, a four and a half hour drive south of home to the barrier island, a trip, packing, meal planning, driving, family dynamics. She couldn’t contain her excitement as we opened the box to the announcement of her surprise. How do you look a seventy-seven year old smiling grandmother who has outdone herself in what she thinks is the perfect gift and say, “thanks, but what we really wanted was to stay at home.”  You don’t. I smiled, hugged her, and spent the next few hours planning the week away.

“She’s getting up there,” Bruce chastised me later when I harrumphed about my exhaustion and plans ruined by a trip to the beach.  “At her age, you never know,” he said shrugging. “Look at this as an opportunity to enjoy some quality time with your mother.”  After a pause, he said, “You know I can’t go. I have that contract with the doctor’s office to push snow if we get a storm.”

Yes there was a contract, but the extended forecast mentioned expectation of higher than average temps and sunny days. I suppose it’s good to have a handy excuse. He hugged me. “I’ll miss you,” he said.

Mama had rented the condo from December 25-January 1.  She wanted to make the most of our time and her six hundred dollars.  “All we have to do is throw some things into a bag and some food into the cooler and go,” she said smiling, her hands clasped together in her excitement. She wanted to leave that afternoon, on Christmas day.

At least no one travels on the twenty-fifth, I thought. Smart people are home, gathered around the tree, opening presents, or sitting down to a home-cooked meal, Norman Rockwell style. Most people.

Traffic was horrendous. I envisioned clear roads, uncongested tunnels, clean rest stops. Wrong. It seems everyone travels on Christmas day and there’s no place to stop for a bite to eat except the Lucky Mart, ten miles off the interstate. They had stale ham and cheese sandwiches, cold tofu burgers with processed cheese to heat in the microwave, chips and drinks.  5th Avenue candy bars served as our holiday dessert.

It was cold at the beach, and there’s not much to do in the winter time. The second floor condo Mama had rented was nice, with a wrap-around couch, large flat screen television, state of the art stereo system, and ample pots for cooking. The sliding glass doors opened off the living area to a balcony. We each had a bedroom to hole up in when needed and mine faced the ocean. If I cracked the window a few inches and burrowed under the covers at night, I could listen to the waves breaking on shore.

Mama brought her dominos, a double set of playing cards, and her recipe book. She fixed coffee for us each morning with just enough sugar and a French vanilla creamer that made me close my eyes and breathe in deeply over the cup, savoring the aroma before letting the sweet caffeine slide down my throat. She always knew how to make a good cup of coffee.

I slept in Monday morning and lounged in my pajamas all day, like I’d wanted to do the day before. I took out the book I’d gotten for Christmas, Suttree by Cormac McCarthy, and read, realizing I didn’t have laundry to wash, wrapping paper to clean up, or a tree to dismantle. I enjoyed a big bowl of Mama’s homemade potato soup with little round oyster crackers. I wrapped myself in a blanket, tucked my feet under me, and read the rest of the evening.

Tuesday was just as quiet with the exception of a rousing game of Spite and Malice, which my mother won. She’s the competitive one.

 We spent the whole of Wednesday ferreting out the thrift stores in the area, trying on vintage comfortable clothes and eclectic jewelry that we’d only pay a dollar a piece for. Mama picked up a green plaid duvet cover for my bed at home for two dollars and I found her a whole box of canning jars with lids for a dollar and a half. We tried on silly purple hats with veils and almost wet ourselves laughing over a pair of shiny red leather, six inch stiletto heels.

“I think I’ll buy these for Mary Elizabeth’s next gathering,” Mama said holding the shoes by their spikes.  I opened my eyes wide.  Mary-Elizabeth is one of Mama’s church friends. She holds fancy teas and respectable luncheons. Her gloves are white and she dons a lace apron when serving refreshments. Mama showing up in stilettos would cause Mary-Elizabeth to go pale, maybe faint, and attempt to hide my mother from her other, more staid friends. Mama would smile, twirl and dare Mary Elizabeth and her friends to walk a mile in her shoes.  

I held the strappy little numbers by their leather backs and dared Mama to try them on. She never backs down from a challenge. She sat on a wobbly wooden rocker in the thrift store and slipped off her soft loafers. I felt a bit like her prince charming, down on my knees, buckling the shoes onto her feet. I held the hand of my seventy-seven year old mother as she stood and teetered toward the full length mirror.  Her elastic waist jeans and flannel button-down shirt gave her that very aged “Ellie May gone inner-city girl” appearance. She struck a pose with hip stuck out, hand behind head, and the two of us doubled over laughing. I had to hold onto her to keep her from toppling head first into a rack of vintage beaded evening gowns.  

The week came to a close much too soon. I hadn’t laughed so hard, eaten so well, or rested as much in a long time.

On Friday afternoon, the day before we left for home, we were drawn to the window by the sight of a hundred or more gulls and pelicans circling and diving into the water after a school of fish so large and boisterous the ocean couldn’t contain them as they fought for room to swim. The fish seemed to jump up out of the water to meet the mouths of the birds.

In all of our years of coming to the Outer Banks, my mother and I had never seen so many sea birds congregate over the ocean, settle on its surface, or dive in such a frenzy. They looked to have been shot from the sky, beaks pointed down, spiraling into the water with a splash, only to come up again, bobbing on the surface. Then they rose again to the air and repeated the exercise.  

Both of us were speechless. We stood in awe of the hundreds of white winged dots rising, falling, dipping and splashing. Then a movement caught my eye and I pointed in its direction. A blue-black hump rose just above the surface of the ocean and shone bright as the sun glinted off it. I thought it was a dolphin at first, but hadn’t seen a fin.  Then the hump disappeared and was gone, but a few seconds later a large spray of water erupted from the ocean’s surface and several feet behind it, a fluke lifted. It was a whale.  I had heard others speak of the migration of the humpbacks in December, but I’d never seen one.

“Whales!” I said.

“Whales!” Mama echoed.

We stood watching them for the next hour. Every once in awhile, a back emerged, or a fin lifted and hovered parallel to the water, then slipped under again.  They swam and spouted and waved at us as we stood side by side, watching in wonder at my mother’s ultimate Christmas gift.

The first time I saw her, she was sitting and talking with a homeless man who looked just like Jesus. They were outside Trilliman’s, an upscale bakery and sandwich place at the shopping center. Two small wrought iron tables with chairs were set up there for patrons to enjoy intimate talks over specialty coffees. It was hot that day. She and Jesus, in their layered clothing, had usurped the space and were sipping orange sport drinks purchased from a vending machine. A policeman ran them away from the establishment. Homeless people were not welcome.   I decided that day the woman must be an angel. She was by Jesus’ side and her frizzy white hair haloed her head. After that, no matter where I saw her wandering the streets with her grocery carts and shopping bags, or which homeless people she was with, I thought of her as the angel, a disciple of Jesus.

As I stepped from the door at work the week before Christmas, rain surprised me. It wasn’t forecasted. I covered my head with my purse and ran to the car. As the defroster blew warm air, it took the chill off.  I fished around in my pocket for the shopping list I’d scribbled at lunchtime. Sighing at all the gift buying I still had to do, I put the car in gear and resigned myself to fighting crowds before going home.

My youngest son had to have the latest style of sneakers. The ones he wore still fit, but according to his assessment, they were vintage. No one wore those kind anymore. The shoe store in the shopping center displayed the latest rage in sneakers in their weekly ad flier in the newspaper that morning. If I didn’t hurry, they’d all be gone and I’d be browsing ebay and bidding way past the true purchase price, with the addition of  express shipping to have them before the holiday. That gift was number one on my list.

The oldest boy had recently bought a used truck and was ‘pimping’ his ride. He talked non-stop about fender flares, grill guards, camouflage seat covers, fog lights, bed liners, and lift kits. I had lots of items to choose from and several automotive stores to visit.

My husband, the hardest man to buy for because he has everything, had mentioned sometime in the spring that he needed one of those battery rechargers and rechargeable batteries. The boys used his flashlight and left it on, killing the alkaline batteries. “Children,” he’d muttered. “They don’t appreciate the value of a dollar.”  The specialty store with the charger and batteries he needed was way over on the other side of town. Traffic was always horrific this time of year. I’d not get home until late. I was glad I’d put a beef roast in the crock pot to cook early that morning.  

I took my place in the line of cars at the traffic light leading to the main thoroughfare. In the distance, I spotted the angel.  It had been several months since I’d seen her last. She stood on the corner of Pine Street and Garrison Road. I recognized her immediately. She has a presence that makes you remember no matter how long it’s been. She seems to understand her direction without maps or a GPS, goes about her business with an unstated purpose; and I never see the troubles of this world reflected in her eyes. 

The rain came down hard enough to use my windshield wipers, and the angel didn’t have an umbrella or a hat. A bright yellow terrycloth headband spanned the area between her forehead and hair line. The ends of her hair drooped and dripped with the water which ran and soaked her Green Bay Packers windbreaker. The jacket was tucked into a pair of olive green army fatigues which were cinched at the waist with the sparkle of a silver sequined belt. Her pants legs disappeared into the tops of knee length black rubber boots sporting bright multi-colored polka-dots, the kind preppy college girls can’t wait for rainy days to wear. Mud from the North River Trail caked her boots. The angel had appeared street-side from the path in the woods where a small group of homeless people on this side of town congregate to commune and sleep at night.  

She was standing there at the intersection when the crosswalk sign changed offering her a safe passage. She didn’t take it. She stood there, holding her electric blue tote bag close to her chest. She peered into the car waiting for the light to change at the end of Pine, then she pecked on the passenger window with her index finger. She reached inside her bag, pulled something out and handed it to the person inside the car. She waved as the light turned green and the car pulled away from the curb. She stepped back and waited. The cars coming down Garrison got their green light and surged forward toward their destinations.

The first car sped past the angel close to the curb and through a puddle. A wave of rainwater crashed up onto the sidewalk and over the angel’s feet. The caked mud slid off onto the sidewalk, and she looked down at the colorful polka dots on her shiny wet boots. She smiled.

My light turned green after a minute, but the yellow one caught me before I could pull out into traffic. Cursing my fate under my breath, I sat staring at the now red light. I was first in line, but waiting again. I noticed movement to my right. The angel had come over close to my car. She pecked on my passenger door glass.

I pressed the button to lower the automatic window. It slid down halfway.  The angel reached into her tote and pulled out a plastic covered candy cane. She handed it to me.

“Merry Christmas,” she said.

When the top strand of twinkle lights went dark in the Christmas tree, I was ready to bag the whole decorating thing and call it a year. I’m usually more patient than that. I pull out every bulb and try a new one until the strand comes to light again. Not this year, I stomped out to the car and drove directly to the thrift store where I found a working strand of bulbs in the bottom of the 50% off Holiday bin. As I turned with the lights in my hand, I noticed a small cotton stocking striped in red and white. It was plain, hand-stitched with no glitter or tinsel, no name across the top, and half the size of my boys’ stockings. I picked it up and marveled at its simplicity. I pulled an extra quarter from my pocket, paid the cashier, and carried it home with the lights.

Ben arranged the strand at the top of the tree. It’s easier for him as tall as he is. Ryan plugged in the lights and all was right with the tree again. I held up my little flannel stocking to share with my boys. They looked at my prize, then at each other, and shrugged their shoulders. They gave me that look that says they don’t understand me, but love me anyway.  I tacked that sweet little sock up with Ben’s Santa soaring over rooftops and Ryan’s sectioned and sparkling snowman stockings.

This year gave us happiness and sadness alike. Ben graduated in May from Ferrum with a major in History and minor in Political Science. He applied to grad school at James Madison University in the school of Kinesiology and was admitted in August. He’s working on a Master’s in sports leadership and management. His first semester came off without a hitch, but with lots of reading and writing.  He’s found a truck he not only loves, but can ease his six foot six inch frame into. He’s also living back home with us.

Ryan adores having his big brother in the house again. They have their moments, like wrestling in the hallway where someone’s head and shoulders plowed through the drywall,  but they’ve got each other’s back and no one messes with the other.  Ryan’s a Junior at Western Albemarle and he has turned into our math whiz. We hold this trait in awe. It’s not genetic, but an anomaly. He scored an advanced pass on the Algebra II Standards of Learning tests, and we celebrated for weeks. He’s holding his own in other, less interesting subjects and shop, his sole ‘A’.  He mentions college occasionally. We encourage him to excel in school, but Ben seems to get the most effort from him.  It’s a good thing Ben is his brother/surrogate parent. Bruce and I would be lost and shaking our heads otherwise.  

We lost Grandma Patsy in June. The cancer treatments were just too much for her heart to take. She was able to attend Ben’s graduation though, and couldn’t have been prouder of him. We miss her, but we all know she is not suffering from the effects of cancer anymore. 

Bruce and I discovered Chincoteague in February of last year and fell completely in love with the area, and a little more with each other in the process as well. The island off the eastern shore of Virginia is a quaint little town with people who are real, and scenery that  is beyond description.  We purchased a half acre lot on Big Glade Creek and visit every opportunity we have.

Bruce still mulches and does yard maintenance. I’m still caring for elders at the nursing home. Life is busy and often complicated. There are so many tasks in a day and not nearly enough time to complete them all. I find myself out of breath and struggling to keep up with all that needs to be done, but as Ryan told Santa when he was five years old and trying to reassure the jolly elf, “I have a plan and a goal.” My goal for 2012 is to simplify, find joy in every day, and in the little things around me.

I’m starting with one small striped cotton Christmas stocking.  I wish you the simple joys of life as well.

She was born in 1934 and Radio City Music Hall was built in 1932. They’ve both held up pretty well under the years.  Her physique is a bit more curvaceous than the Art Deco symmetrical lines of the theater, but both are stunning in their own right. They know how to shine. Both accessorize in crystal dangles, and drape themselves in gold silk.  The woman is small, standing one half inch over five feet tall. The theater is large, seating over six thousand, with a stage measuring sixty-six feet by one hundred forty-four feet. Its shape and style reflects that of the setting sun.  

Tickets to see the Rockettes are for the 11:30 matinee. She, the matriarch of the family now, has ridden all the way from Virginia, chauffeured through five states and multiple speed limits to the home of her niece, the one who procured the one hundred ten dollar orchestra seats for the show.

An alarm set for seven-thirty Saturday morning gives her and her progeny just the amount of time needed to awaken from their soft beds in a New Jersey suburb, don robes and slippers and sip coffee with cream over a toasted buttered bagel before having to bathe and dress for the event. Conversation is punctuated with soft laughter. She stops at one point, china cup in hand, and says, “It’s good to have my girls together again.”  The sun promises to be warmer than yesterday just because she’s visiting the city.  

She dresses in black wool slacks with matching flats for midtown walking. A soft gray cashmere pullover sweater is accented with a long knotted strand of vintage jet black glass beads. Their facets reflect light. Her short style of natural waves shines white atop her head.

Black has always been her favorite non-color. She remembers her brother’s funeral. He was buried in the family cemetery on a day hanging gray with clouds in 1944. It was war time and clothing was drab then, but even at age ten, she felt herself coming into her own. She sorted through her sister’s closet and found a simple A-line black wool dress. She wore it over a white cotton blouse with a peter pan collar. She found black tights to match the dress and slipped her feet into a pair of patent leather Mary Jane shoes. The eldest of her sisters admonished her to take special care of the strand of ivory  pearls she fastened around her little sister’s small neck that day. 

She pulls a tiny faded black and white photograph from her wallet to share. It was taken just before the funeral. She stands out amongst the members of her family, chin held high, gloved hands clasped together in front of her. The seriousness of her expression reflects the solemn occasion.  

She will not leave the house without lipstick.  She throws the charcoal gray wool cape over her shoulders, wraps the Blumen Tuch silk scarf from Germany around her neck, and pulls red gloves onto her hands. That and the lipstick are the only splashes of color she allows.

The seats are ten rows back from the stage. The lights lower and the curtain rises. Thirty sets of legs begin to kick in unison to the opening number. She reaches out to the niece sitting next to her, motioning her to lean in close. “As old as I am,” she says. “I can still kick up my heels.”

She is not to be doubted.  

Nursing homes never close.   Weekends and holidays are included in the work schedule.  The most popular holidays to have off are Christmas and Thanksgiving.  New Year’s Day is special to those who party the night before.

I worked Thanksgiving last year. It was my turn. We planned our meal at home around my absence. I was annoyed. Holidays are family time and I hate missing my routine, watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in my flannel pajamas and fuzzy slippers, spending most of the day in the kitchen, basting the turkey, mixing batter for pumpkin bars, smacking the boys’ hands as they dip a finger for a taste, peeling ten pounds of potatoes, listening to Johnny Mathis croon Christmas tunes, and later, after the feast and dishes, football games.  Next year, I thought with a sigh.

Oh well, I reasoned, go in early, leave early, dinner with in-laws by four o’clock, help with dishes at their house, and finally football at home. The day won’t be a total wash, but not what I love.  I hit the time clock by the nursing home kitchen door at seven twenty-six, making Thanksgiving a work day.

The halls were quiet, not like a usual nine to five day.  I got the daily newsletter printed and delivered. As I visited room to room, my elder friends greeted me with “Happy Thanksgiving, It’s so nice to see you here today.”  

Most every room’s television displayed marching bands, floats with popular singers, and giant helium balloons coming around the corner onto Sixth Avenue from Broadway in New York City.  Mary and I watched  Kermit the Frog wave to the crowd. Down the hall and around the corner Olive and I laughed at Ronald McDonald as he looked to be running to catch up to his fellow helium-filled buddies.  I sat on Earl’s bed while we watched a marching band move into formations while keeping tune. Earl kept time with his right foot tapping on the linoleum floor tile.

I dropped by the kitchen to see how the holiday dinner was coming along.  Three, golden brown twenty pound turkeys lay side by side in baking pans, Raymond, the chef, kept an eye on the candied yams, green bean casserole, oyster dressing, and glazed carrots.  He was chopping cranberries for the relish and had a pot boiling on the stove for ‘real’ mashed potatoes. Yeast rolls rose in the warming tray and gravy bubbled in a pot.  Twenty-five homemade pies cooled on the rack. In my thirty years, I’d never seen such a feast. I smiled with anticipation for the elders and went back upstairs to transcribe the list of “things we’re thankful for” residents had turned in the week before.

Robert, the maintenance assistant walked into the Activity Room for his break, and put on a pot of coffee.  He was working Thanksgiving day too. As the smell of brewed coffee filled the room, Robert pulled up Tractor.com on the computer and drooled over several John Deere four-wheel drive machines with enclosed cabs.  Robert’s a farmer at heart, keeping up with a small cattle farm single-handedly in addition to his forty hour work week at the nursing home. 

The elders love Robert.  They’ve adopted him as their son.  His daily rounds include a tool box filled with wrenches, hammers,  hugs, cups of coffee,  and often, just five minutes of time to listen to stories. 

“What are you doing at noon?” I asked him.

“I don’t know, probably checking the tags on fire extinguishers, why?”

“Can you carve the turkeys in the dining room?”

“Sure,” he said. “Where’s the knife?”

We searched the cabinets and finally came up with a fairly large, straight edged knife.

“Can’t cut hot butter with this thing,” Robert said, running his thumb across the dull edge. “Let me go find a file.”  Suddenly, he was in his element, finding an implement he could sharpen, like a blade on his hay mowing machine.

Robert and I met upstairs at 12:00 sharp. There are sixteen tables in the dining room. Sixty-four people, dressed in their finest, bowed their heads as Nannie gave thanks.  “We gather today to count our many blessings,” she said. “Thank you Lord for everyone here, for the hands that prepared this meal, and for another year of life. Please help us remember to appreciate each day we are given and to love those around us. Amen.”

Robert carved, and the rest of the staff members served the feast.

The large, flat screen television over the fireplace is perfect for football. Dallas and New Orleans faced off and old men stared intently at the action. One shook his fist at an Umpire’s call. Several cheered when their team scored, and a few on the losing side cursed. It was just like home, only with wheelchairs.

I brought the craft materials into the dining room where several ladies helped me glue the Thanksgiving quotes onto a tri-fold poster board. Earlier in the week, each elder had been given a strip of paper. “Think about what you’re thankful for,“  I said.  We’ll post them on Thanksgiving day for everyone to read.”

“I’m thankful for my health.” –Albert

“My children.” –Jim

“The staff here.” –Mary

“Science Club” –Sonny

“To have won the battle against Cancer.”—Hazel

“Friends” –Anne

“I wasn’t born a woman.” –Robert

“Having enough food to eat, and a roof over my head.” –Patty

We unfolded strip after strip of paper, transcribed with so many blessings in shaky handwriting, by nursing home residents who still felt thankful.

“You write one,” Constance said to me.

I took one of the strips and wrote in bold letters:

Spending Thanksgiving Day with my Friends here.

Usually, when corporate executives visit the nursing home, the experience raises everyone’s blood pressure. Their expectations seem so unrealistic. After all, they sit in some office somewhere and make policy. We are busy taking care of basic needs and attempting to add a little light into old, frail lives.

This week, the biggest of the corporate folks arrived in force. The company has re-organized due to cuts in the Medicare program. The new directors are moving across country, visiting all the homes, offering assistance, best practices they’ve seen on their travels. They’re asking us questions. They’re encouraging us to share our best practices with them. They’re listening.  Our blood pressure has leveled off, maybe even decreased.

Prior to their visit, sometime over the weekend, someone dropped off a bushel of apples from a local orchard. They were on my doorstep at work Monday morning. I was excited. Here was an unlimited variety of meaningful activity for my elders, a week’s worth of fun, pies, apple butter, applesauce, dried apples, sliced raw apples, juice running off whiskered chins, wrinkled hands peeling, shared recipes, stories of orchards, harvests, and senses enhanced by cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice and real butter.

“You cannot use those apples,” someone said. “They haven’t been FDA approved.”

Something stopped me from getting rid of them. I left the basket of apples on the counter. When staff asked about them, I said I had a plan for them. I wasn’t sure what it was yet, but I knew there was one.

The corporate wheels rolled into the parking lot at varying times on Tuesday afternoon.  They converged in the conference room as our staff whispered, and wondered, and wrung their hands in anticipation. The surface of the place shined, the halls smelled of aerosol orange essence.

There were a whole lot of us, so we met in the activity room. It’s the place where residents feel most at home. There’s a green Formica-top kitchen table with chrome legs, a distressed white-washed kitchen cabinet housing mixing bowls, spices, a flour sifter, a Rumford baking powder cookbook and a china tea set.  Against one wall, a wooden workbench sits under a pegboard with tools attached, a hammer, wrench, oil can, spark plug, fan belt, garden hose sprayer, carpenter’s level and a screwdriver. The piano sits against the other wall with music books. Spider plants and terrariums enjoy the sun from stands in front of the windows. A couch, love seat, and glider rocker sit in a group encouraging rest or reading of the books and magazines on the shelves. It’s a place I’d want to go to find refuge if I lived in the nursing home.

 The VP had us sit in a circle. He introduced himself and asked each of us to do the same and tell everyone how long we’ve worked here. There are five of us who have been working here over thirty years. We are considered the elders of the staff. The VP was in awe of our longevity. He shouldn’t have been. It’s what we do, it’s who we are. These elders are our hearts.

When the meeting disbanded, when we understood the goal, the company director of dining services walked over to my basket of apples.

“You planning some apple activities this week?” she asked.

“I was,” I said.

“And you changed your mind?” she asked.

“They’re not FDA approved,” I said.

“Let’s see,” she said taking one from the basket, washing it thoroughly with soap and water and biting into it. “Seem like perfectly good Granny Smith apples to me, great for cooking and eating. They’d make wonderful pies. Just wash them well,” she said, turning toward the door.

Celia and I peeled a colander full of the crisp green apples this afternoon. She had her own knife, the one she keeps locked in my desk drawer. We tried to outdo each other in making the longest spiral of peel. She beat me hands down. I cored and sliced the juicy quarters into one-eighth inch slivers.

Betty gave up her mother’s apple pie recipe. It took very little coaxing and brought a warm smile to her face.

Robert, a former chef, explained the difference between nutmeg and cinnamon and how much to sprinkle over the pie because Betty’s mother didn’t measure, she just sprinkled.

Elise, whose fingers don’t work like they used to, sugared the apples, and Tessa fussed over the crust.

Ethel tasted the fruit, extolling its tartness and declared it “a good cookin’ apple.”

Laura, who has difficulty finding the words for her sentences, read each step of the recipe with her glasses perched on the end of her nose.

And Sonny, who’d never baked anything in his life, measured out the butter because he didn’t think it was fair to eat a piece of the pie if he didn’t do something to help.

With the oven preheated to 350, two apple pies slid inside and onto its metal rack. We waited the hour of baking, telling more stories of pies from the past, of other mother’s recipes, of days in kitchens from years ago. The scent of cinnamon and nutmeg, butter and sugar filled the room and drifted out into the hallway. Staff members drifted back to us to see what smelled so good. They wanted us to start a bakery. They complimented the group on a job well done.

The only thing better than warm apple pie topped with vanilla ice cream is the feeling of accomplishment in making the pastries from scratch. If you don’t believe it, just ask Celia, Betty, Robert, Elise, Tessa, Ethel, Laura and Sonny.

Tonight I opened the hinged wooden box on my dresser and dropped a solid white glass marble and a 2003 copper penny into it. The two items found their own spots among the collection in the small pine container.  They joined a menagerie of keepsakes including a rusted gate hinge, a quartz rock, a hand-forged nail, a triplet of brown acorns attached at the stem, a brass button with an anchor embossed on it, a heart shaped rock,  and a small scrap of blue paper folded in fourths. I smiled at the contents.  If the house should catch fire, and my family and animals were safe outside, I’d grab this box second only to the photographs of my children.  

I’ve known Bruce for thirty-three of my fifty birthdays. As I sat in a hotel bed this morning, sipping the cup of coffee he brought me, I tried to think of the birthday presents he’s given me over the years.  I can’t remember a single wrapped gift placed in my hand or on a table in front of me. Bruce hasn’t even presented me with the proverbial vacuum cleaner that women complain about.  He’s not one for fancy trimmings, romantic gestures, or grand hoopla.  What he does, is proclaim a rousing “Happy Birthday,” and then, he gives up his whole day to me.

This year I wanted to go to Chincoteague, to spend the weekend of my birthday walking the grounds of the wildlife refuge, feeling that ever-present wind blow through my hair. I wanted to take as many photographs as the memory card could hold, and wander the island thrift stores in search of a good book to read. I didn’t want to cook. We packed the car and left early Friday morning. We didn’t come back until tonight.  

When I was a little girl, I remember making wishes on my birthday candles. This year, fifty candles would cover the entire cake top. Even at my age, I still make birthday wishes.  When I think back on it, I’ve rarely wished for things, even when I was very young. What I mostly wished for was the presence of someone I loved, or the presence of someone who would love me.  

Saturday we woke early and rode over to our half acre lot. I pulled out the folding chair, and sat at the edge of Big Glade Creek, reading Out of Africa while Bruce ran the weed eater for the final time this year. Canada Geese honked overhead in their migration south, ripples stirred across the top of the water and the few leaves left on the trees rustled in the breeze. I smelled wood smoke in the cool air.  I didn’t hear Bruce come up behind me, but I felt his presence.  “Hold out your hand and close your eyes,” he said.

I did. When I opened my eyes again, there was a round white glass marble there.

“I think it’s a pearl,” he said laughing and bending to kiss my cheek.

“First real pearl I’ve ever gotten,” I said, admiring my gift.

“Must have come out of an oyster in this very creek,” he said. “I found it a few feet from here.”

I put it in the pocket of my jeans. Bruce went back to work on the broom sage, and I went back to reading.

That same evening, we walked the beach of Assateague, picking up and admiring shells. I was turning a conch over in my hand, watching the light play off  its pink iridescent wet underside, when Bruce bent down and picked up a shiny copper disk in the surf.  “Look,” he said, handing it to me, “pirate treasure.”

“2003,” I said, holding the penny up close to my bifocals. “Some of Jack Sparrow’s booty maybe, but not Black Beard’s.”

Bruce shrugged his shoulders. “Treasure’s treasure,” he said. “Doesn’t matter where it comes from.”

I put the penny in my pocket with the white marble. We walked on, continuing to search the shoreline, stopping to watch a boy skip shells off the waves, and another learn to fly a kite.

Tonight when I opened the treasure box on my dresser and dropped my two new gifts inside, I glanced at the other things housed there, each one special,  each one given to me by a man who doesn’t use pretty paper or ribbon to wrap his gifts to me. He wraps them in memories.

Mama worked and couldn’t stay home with me when I woke with a temperature, chills, upset stomach or bad cold.  She’d wrap me in a warm blanket and carry me to Grandma’s house. She met us at the door, gathered me into the soft warmth of her lilac smell and hugged me tight.

 My bed was already prepared on the living room couch with feather pillows, crisp white cotton sheets that smelled like the Yardley Lilly of the Valley scented soap she kept hidden in the linen closet. Only the two of us were allowed to open a cake of that soap for bath time.

Grandma pulled the maroon and orange afghan that her sister Ruby had crocheted over me, plumped my pillows, put her cool hand to my forehead, and asked me if I wanted the ice in my gingerale whole or crushed. The last thing she did before heading to the kitchen was turn on the small black and white Zenith television to the channel with Gilligan, Petty Coat Junction, and Green Acres on it.

With my cold drink on the table beside the couch, I watched TV and dozed until lunchtime.

If I was feeling up to it, I ate my lunch at the kitchen table with Grandpa and Grandma. She always fixed me milk toast and fussed over me.  To this day, If I close my eyes, I can still see the steam rising from that flowered china bowl in the center of her table. My portion was ladled into my own china bowl, the one with the picture of a rabbit in the bottom. My spoon was the only one with tiny flowers etched into the handle. The steam from the milk toast warmed my face, while the buttery liquid warmed my insides all the way down to my toes.

Milk Toast

2 cups chicken broth

1 cup milk

½ stick butter

Salt and pepper to taste

Heat all ingredients  in a saucepan on  top of the stove. When butter is melted, add some thickening to taste. (flour mixed with some cold water, pour in gradually and stir until it’s the right consistency). Pour liquid into bowl. Float pieces of toast on top. 

Grandma also fixed this for holiday meals to spoon over dressing.

I’ve been talking all week about taking pictures, about this weekend being the final one before all the leaves are gone. I’ve mentioned several times how pretty I bet the countryside is going to be. I’ve said I want to spend some time this weekend taking pictures.  I didn’t go yesterday, it rained and snowed. Today was Sunday, the last day of the weekend. It was now or never.  

When I got up this morning, Bruce was busy gathering his lawn maintenance equipment, gas cans, short little keys to the mowing machines on the trailer he pulls behind the truck. As he does every day of the week, he planned to work.

The sky was bright, clear with a few white puffy clouds. A slight breeze blew in from the north, and the leaves were on their way to becoming the gold and brown of past peak. After yesterday’s weather, it’s definitely the last weekend for colorful reflection. When the wind blows this week, leaves will rain off the trees.

“I’m headed to the doctor’s office in Crozet to mow and get up leaves,” Bruce announced on his way out the door. See you later this afternoon.”

I stood dumbfounded. I couldn’t believe it.

After growling low in my throat and pulling my hair in frustration, I charged my batteries, put the camera in my pocket and stomped to the car. My plans included a trip to Mint Springs, Sugar Hollow, and Beaver Creek Dam. I wouldn’t be home until later this afternoon either. To heck with laundry, dusting, dishes, toilets, sinks and tubs. The winter wardrobe could just hibernate in its plastic tub one more week. The boys wear shorts all winter anyway.

I sped through Crozet ten miles over the speed limit before the colors of my purpose slowed me, calmed me enough to notice them. The mountains to my west pulled me to their reds and yellows. The blue sky met them on the horizon to make a palette of primary colors and their secondary offshoots of orange, green and purple.

Mint Springs is closest to home and the sun was still low in the east. I’ve been admiring a barn for the past year, but the light hasn’t been right when I’ve been there. It was my first stop, and I was feeling adventurous. I don’t usually break rules. When Bruce does, I get nervous, stand back, and worry about getting caught. I’m not a good Bonnie to his Clyde.  My heart beats fast; and I hesitate.

Today, on my own and angry in my independence, I stepped around the locked chain and no trespassing sign guarding the barn and the orchard to the west of Mint Springs Park. What could happen to me? I had no gun, was only armed with a camera, and all the apples had already been harvested. Not a soul was in sight, but I didn’t care either way. I took my time, and found the angle I needed with the sun behind me. On the other side of the red barn with its rusted roof sat an equally rusted hulk of a truck, its steering wheel open to the air, its engine and tires missing. A highway of weeds stretched out in front of it. In the distance, an abandoned gray hornet’s nest, clung to a bare apple tree branch. Pay dirt.

Back at Mint Springs’ lower lake, I surprised a young couple as they walked their dogs through the woods on the edge of the tree line.  “Beautiful day,” I announced as they walked past me.

“Oh hi,” the girl said.

“Great day to get out and enjoy the leaves, huh?” the boy said.

“Sure is,” I said. What I didn’t say was, “I’m glad you saw fit to accompany your other half on an outing today. Glad you didn’t have grass to cut and weeds to pull and parking lots to sweep.”

I got in the car and drove the ten miles farther west to Sugar Hollow. Halfway there, a pine tree lay in the road blocking my path. Several cars had parked on this side, their passengers obviously deterred. I wasn’t.  Making sure there were no oncoming cars, I swerved to the other side of the road and drove through the top of the pine, paying little attention to the branches as they scraped the side of the car. “Let Bruce polish them out,” I said to no one in the passenger seat.

I stopped at the bridges and snapped the river. I parked at the reservoir, walked down the hill and took some shots of the huge split rock. I walked down the path, and sat on the bank overlooking the lake. Following the shoreline, I took pictures of a duck swimming in the distance.

“Hi,” a man sitting in the sun behind the windbreak of a boulder said.

“Oh, you scared me,” I said putting my hand to my heart.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to. Getting some good shots?” he asked.

“Beautiful,” I said.

“You should have been here yesterday evening with the snow under these trees. It was magnificent.”

“I bet,” I said, wondering where his other half was. “Any luck with the fish?”

“Nope, too windy, I think.”

When my heart got its beat back to normal, I headed up the bank to the main road and back to the car. I still had one more stop.

Beaver Creek Dam is three miles from home. Local boys launch their boats from the shore and spend all day fishing from one end of the lake to the other. When I arrived, I was the only one parked in the lot. The sun was at such an angle, I had to walk to the south and into the shade of some trees to avoid glare on the water. As I stepped along the edge, my shoes squeaked in the wet grass. Yesterday’s freak snow had left its moisture behind. Frogs plunked into the water from a half-submerged log, and birds rustled in the dry leaves of the cat tails.  When I reached my destination, I looked in the distance to see a couple of young men in a flat bottom boat fishing along the bank. One of them waved to me, before the boat turned left into a shady inlet. I thought about our boat at home in the garage. Today would have been a perfect day to take her out.

It was three-thirty when I pulled into the driveway. I had two hundred seventy-nine photos stored on the memory card. My feet were muddy along with the seat of my pants from sliding down an embankment at Sugar Hollow. My face was pink with windburn and my muscles were tired from all the walking I did. I was calm though, most of my anger having been exercised. I leaned back in the car seat and closed my eyes.

I awoke to a peck on the window.

“Where you been?” Bruce mouthed.

I turned the switch and lowered my window.  “Where haven’t I been?” I said. “Mint Springs, Sugar Hollow, Beaver Creek Dam.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going?” he asked. “I could have gone with you.”

“You had work to do,” I accused.

“Shoot,” he said, “that could have waited until tomorrow.”

I closed my eyes and shook my head as I was reminded just one more time that men don’t take hints. They need a billboard and at least three reminders.