Living on Planet Elderly

Sunday, April 14, 2024

A new chapter began a few weeks ago when I moved to a condo community, two blocks from where I was renting. Bit by bit I’ve met a few neighbors in passing, but one in particular stands out: M.T. The fact that I met this woman at all is likely due to strange forces in the universe.

Many units in my new condo community have screened in decks and patio areas. My patio is not screened. I got one bid and was told it would be a bit over $9,000. Really? REALLY? C’mon. My patio just needs two sides screened. No roof needed because there’s a deck above me.

I was curious what others paid, so I decided to ask whoever lives in the corner unit of the building across from mine.

One afternoon I walked over, knocked on the door, and M.T., a smiling elderly lady, came to the door. I introduced myself, she invited me in, and we talked briefly about screening a patio like hers. She told me she paid $1,900. She wasn’t sure of the company’s name…some outfit from around the Lake of the Ozarks area. I thanked her for the information, apologized for just stopping by, and she suggested I come over again sometime for coffee. We exchanged phone numbers. She seemed interested in getting to know the newest resident of the community, so I called a few days later and we met for coffee and cookies.

First Coffee Chat

My first coffee visit with M.T. sort of felt like a job interview. She asked a lot of questions. Where am I from…how long have I lived in Columbia…number of children…where did I work, etc. l learned that she had one son. She was never able to have any more children, just miscarriages, over 10 I think. She and her husband were high school sweethearts and were married 66 years. She loved him dearly the entire time. He passed away 8 years ago. Her son manages her finances, and both he and his wife help out with shopping and appointments. Across the way from her is another elderly lady, J. J has health problems, but they visit and keep their unit doors open and their storm doors locked. That makes it easy to check in on each other. MJ said that she had a stroke and it has affected her left side a bit. Her vision isn’t as good as it should be, and if she has to walk any kind of distance, she uses a walker and takes her time because she gets winded.

“I like J, but she is more liberal than I’d like,” M.T. said. (“Uh oh,” I said to myself.) “So, what do you think about how things are these days, with all those thousands of immigrants coming over the border every day? It’s horrible! And that Biden…it’s his fault!”

(from Fox 10 Phoenix)

“Well,” I said, “it certainly is concerning.” In no way whatsoever was I going to challenge this woman’s understanding of the world. She has Newsmax on the TV for hours on end, for Pete’s sake. This is her life and she is a true believer.

(from The Daily Beast)

I couldn’t help but think, “Oh boy, she is totally brainwashed. I need to be careful…and respectful.” Many political experts and psychologists have suggested that people at opposite ends of the political spectrum take opportunities to just talk to each other. Get to know the other person as the neighbor or co-worker they are, and not just dismiss them because of the label “liberal” or “conservative.” This was my opportunity.

(from TIME magazine)

“One thing I do know,” I said, “is that inflation is a problem for everyone these days. The cost of simple things like eggs and bread have really gone up.”

(from Modern Farmer)

(from Redbubble)

Bingo.

Common ground.

M.T. took that topic and ran with it. I heard about how Biden caters to billionaires, Trump never had that problem when he was president, the Democrats are turning into communists, and “Trump better win in November or we will never get our country back.” I never nodded in agreement to any of her points, but I kept good eye contact and occasionally made the sound “hmmm.”

During our coffee time, the topics of conversation varied. It wasn’t all politics.

M.T. has a neighbor behind her who is a florist. He sometimes stops by to pick up her trash for her. He’s gay and she believes that is an abomination. “He is a nice enough fella, but I just don’t approve of what he does.” I did nod my head once to that comment, and then I told her that I had two male relatives who are gay.

“You do? Doesn’t that bother you? What do their fathers think?”

This is where I decided to “come out.” “M.J., I believe the world has changed a lot in its thinking over the past 60 years. I think people around the world are becoming a bit more tolerant of each other’s differences, whatever they are. And…well…I lean liberal.” She looked down at her cup of coffee, shook her head, sighed, and muttered something about the Bible. Then she announced, “Well, I’m a Trumper. Our country is a mess.” I nodded with enthusiasm.

I mentioned that I met the condo board president one day when I was moving boxes in. She lives on the third floor of my building and talks a lot. A lot. She told me she is 78 and has a 60-yr-old boyfriend. Okey Dokey.

“She is useless,” M.T. said. “She doesn’t ever get anything important done. Plus she talks too damn much.”

Then I told M.T. that I had met V, who also lives on the third floor of my building, and that we seemed to have a few things in common.”

“Oh, I’ve met her,” M.T. said. “I didn’t like her much. She seemed standoffish. But I told J. that I met you. I told her, ‘You’re gonna like this one.’ I don’t know why she hasn’t come over. I invited her to have coffee with us.”

Then her phone rang. She answered it, and it was clear that someone wanted to visit with her. I waved ‘bye and she waved back. “No, that’s okay,” she told the caller. “I had company but she is leaving now.”

Over the next few days, I thought a lot about my coffee visit with M.T. I liked her. She’s spunky and frank. She is 84, and like a lot of older people, she lives alone. She may have a visitor or phone call now and then, but she doesn’t drive anymore. She can’t take out her own trash. She can’t even go for a little walk around the condo compound. She is lonely. She enjoys company and conversation. I’ll give her a call in a week or so, and if she isn’t terribly mad that I’m a liberal, maybe we’ll visit again.

A Lunch Date

This past Monday I went for a walk around Shelter Gardens. I knew the tulip buds were likely blooming, so I went there for a photo walk to see what I could capture. While there, my phone rang. I usually look to see if it’s anyone I know or another plea for a political donation. It was M.T.

“Hi!” I said.

“Hi, Hon. What are you doin’?”

(Hon?) I’m over at Shelter Gardens doing a photo walk. The tulips are blooming and I have my camera with me. How are you?”

“I’m alright,” she said. “I was wondering if you are free some time this week. I’d like to take you to lunch. It can’t be Tuesday, though.”

(Lunch?) “That sounds great. Thank you, but you don’t have to pay for my lunch. When I get home, I’ll check my calendar to see which days I have free. Then I’ll call you.”

“You’re going to call me when you get back?”

“Yes. It will be around 8. Okay?”

“That’s okay. I never go to bed before midnight. I’ll talk to you later, Hon.”

(Hon?)

When I picked her up Wednesday at 11:30, M.T. came out to the car and was smiling. She walked very carefully, she wore a nice outfit, and she had some make up on. Well, I did, too. After all. It was a gal’s lunch date. And when we arrived at Big Mama’s Cafe, she told me she could not always see clearly enough to get up curbs and maneuver the inside of restaurants and stores by herself. I offered my arm and she took it. For the rest of our time together that day, she either took my arm or we held hands.

During lunch we chatted and laughed a lot. She told me that her mother once told her that when she gets married, “if you put on your make up every day and wear a nice dress, your husband will never leave you.” She again mentioned that they were married over 60 years and she loved him dearly. Then she added, “Everyone goes through their ups and downs, and we were married all those years. He was a good husband.”

Then, while munching on our BLT sandwiches, she brought up Biden. “They have him on drugs, you know. He can’t put together two words, so you know they’re giving him somethin’. You can tell. Look how they propped him up during that Inaugural Address. Somethin’ had to be going on.”

(from The Hill)

I could not resist offering my take on that topic. “I know! From what I’ve read, most of our presidents have had medicines to help them deal with pain, help them stay awake or get to sleep. Think of it. They have all these meetings all the time…hundreds of interruptions every day…they fly all over the world and have to function at public appearances in other countries…then some natural disaster happens or one country starts a war with another… and these presidents, they have to be alert to address that…plus all the speeches they have to give…and those press conferences. Who could do all that? It would be impossible for any of them to do all of that without some chemicals of some kind…and some favorite foods, I’m sure.” She looked right at me, nodded slowly, and said, “Well, I suppose.”

Then she asked, “Do you ever worry about dying…you know, getting old and can’t do anything anymore?” I was impressed. How many near strangers ask the other person that question? Then I think I got it. She’s comfortable around me. She likes me. She feels just fine asking that kind of question point blank. She wants to share.

“Yes, I do. I think about it a lot. My gal pals and I, we often talk about being in our last chapter and needing to be prepared to downsize in case we have to move to assisted living when we need more help, and we don’t want to bother our kids or other relatives. Honestly, we’re trying to stay as independent as we can for as long as possible, but we also know that anything can happen at any time.”

“Yes,” she said. “Just like my stroke. I just went down and I was on the floor. I’m lucky I don’t have too much damage.”

After finishing our sandwiches, we had homemade pie. Real. Homemade. Pie. She insisted. It was a splurge. I leaned forward and said, “This is delicious. I appreciate the invitation, but you don’t need to buy me lunch. If we go to lunch now and then, we can go Dutch.”

“No. This is the least I can do.”

(The least you can do? For what?) “Can I at least leave the tip?”

“No.”

We left the restaurant holding hands. Once in the car and buckled up, I asked if she would like to stop by Shelter Gardens to see the tulips. “That would be nice.”

When we arrived at Shelter Gardens, it was clear that she could not walk far. Once we got inside the garden area, she said she needed to sit and catch her breath. We sat on a bench, and a light sprinkle came from above…just enough to ensure that we had to leave. I pointed to the left, to a large bed of tulips. “Well, at least you can see the tulips over there.”

(photo by J. J. Mummert) (me!)

“Oh…they are beautiful. Thank you for taking me here.” Then we drove back home.

And there it is. I have a Trumper neighbor who likes me but not my politics.

Thank you, Universe.