Read Barry Friedman - The Old Folks At Home: Warehouse Them or Leave Them on the Ice Floe for Free Online Page A
Authors: Barry Friedman
you both.”
I stepped forward to shake Larry’s hand, but Fredricka grabbed my shoulder, “Time to go.”
I went.
I remembered Larry and Christine as being effusive, very sociable. Of course, that was before Larry’s stroke. But even then, Christine remained cheerful and talkative and Larry had made attempts to speak but was frustrated by his inability. Seeing them now, the change in their demeanor was striking.
As we walked toward the elevator, I said, “Have they been sedated?”
Fredricka said, “No. Why.”
I shrugged. “They seem drugged.”
Fredricka shook her head.
We reached the elevator door. She got on with me and we rode down one floor. We were at the door leading to the ramp that connected the Care Center and Assisted Living building to the Independent Living building. Fredricka slipped the deadbolt and gestured toward the exit.
The door hissed closed as I stepped out.
I spoke to the closed door. “And you have a nice day, too.”
Chapter Twelve
One of the problems being retired and living in an Old Fo—excuse me—Senior Living Community, is that there’s too much time on your hands. Your meals are prepared and served, you can chose from several activities de jour , you can attend Resident Association or committee meetings, take walks, exercise, or just stay in your apartment and read or watch TV.
There is one activity that takes precedence over all others: going for the mail. Harriet, for one, could hardly wait each day for Ray, the mailman. I have a sneaking suspicion she had something going with Ray, but at her age what could happen?
Around noon every day but Sunday, Ray would drag in bins loaded with mail and distribute it into the residents’ mailboxes. When the word came out that the Postal Service was considering discontinuing Saturday deliveries, you’d have thought someone had died. Several people wrote indignant letters to the Postmaster General voicing their extreme displeasure. Of course, the letters were sent e-mail, the main reason the Postal Service was becoming bankrupt.
The letters Ray stuffed into our boxes were filled with vital information. Examples: Final Notice, your membership in the Alzheimer Foundation is expiring; Please help the hungry children of (any country from column B); Please help the hungry people of (any country from column C), etc.
A wastebasket for recycled material sat alongside the mailboxes, and most of the letters and circulars that filled our mailboxes went, unopened, into the wastebasket.
The exceptions: letters from charities that enclosed a nickel or dime for priming the donation pump. The coin was dug out, then the letter was trashed. At mail time, residents who had bought in to The Bowers for close to a million dollars, walked away jingling their coins. It was the March of thei r Dimes.
Adjacent to the Postal Service mail boxes, were open slots for each apartment, in which in-house notices were placed. Here’s where we could find the current week’s menus, a list of the planned activities for the week, notices that the water would be shut off from 10 PM to 5 AM on a certain date in order to repair a broken sewer line, and the like.
A resident could leave a note for another resident in the slot. corresponding to the recipient’s apartment number.
Several weeks after I’d visited Larry and Christine Rogers in the Assisted Living Facility, I found in my mailbox, a handwritten envelope with a Troy , NY postmark. Since I knew no one in Troy , I thought it was probably another letter asking for my donation, but disguised by the handwritten address. Tricky. I ripped open the envelope expecting to find a letter that gave me the choice of a $50, $100, or $1,000 donation for the protection of hoot owls. To my surprise, the envelope contained a real letter that read:
Dear Mr. Callins,
I am the daughter of Larry and Christine Rogers. I live in Troy , NY , and at least twice a year, I visit them. Because the distance makes travel
I stepped forward to shake Larry’s hand, but Fredricka grabbed my shoulder, “Time to go.”
I went.
I remembered Larry and Christine as being effusive, very sociable. Of course, that was before Larry’s stroke. But even then, Christine remained cheerful and talkative and Larry had made attempts to speak but was frustrated by his inability. Seeing them now, the change in their demeanor was striking.
As we walked toward the elevator, I said, “Have they been sedated?”
Fredricka said, “No. Why.”
I shrugged. “They seem drugged.”
Fredricka shook her head.
We reached the elevator door. She got on with me and we rode down one floor. We were at the door leading to the ramp that connected the Care Center and Assisted Living building to the Independent Living building. Fredricka slipped the deadbolt and gestured toward the exit.
The door hissed closed as I stepped out.
I spoke to the closed door. “And you have a nice day, too.”
Chapter Twelve
One of the problems being retired and living in an Old Fo—excuse me—Senior Living Community, is that there’s too much time on your hands. Your meals are prepared and served, you can chose from several activities de jour , you can attend Resident Association or committee meetings, take walks, exercise, or just stay in your apartment and read or watch TV.
There is one activity that takes precedence over all others: going for the mail. Harriet, for one, could hardly wait each day for Ray, the mailman. I have a sneaking suspicion she had something going with Ray, but at her age what could happen?
Around noon every day but Sunday, Ray would drag in bins loaded with mail and distribute it into the residents’ mailboxes. When the word came out that the Postal Service was considering discontinuing Saturday deliveries, you’d have thought someone had died. Several people wrote indignant letters to the Postmaster General voicing their extreme displeasure. Of course, the letters were sent e-mail, the main reason the Postal Service was becoming bankrupt.
The letters Ray stuffed into our boxes were filled with vital information. Examples: Final Notice, your membership in the Alzheimer Foundation is expiring; Please help the hungry children of (any country from column B); Please help the hungry people of (any country from column C), etc.
A wastebasket for recycled material sat alongside the mailboxes, and most of the letters and circulars that filled our mailboxes went, unopened, into the wastebasket.
The exceptions: letters from charities that enclosed a nickel or dime for priming the donation pump. The coin was dug out, then the letter was trashed. At mail time, residents who had bought in to The Bowers for close to a million dollars, walked away jingling their coins. It was the March of thei r Dimes.
Adjacent to the Postal Service mail boxes, were open slots for each apartment, in which in-house notices were placed. Here’s where we could find the current week’s menus, a list of the planned activities for the week, notices that the water would be shut off from 10 PM to 5 AM on a certain date in order to repair a broken sewer line, and the like.
A resident could leave a note for another resident in the slot. corresponding to the recipient’s apartment number.
Several weeks after I’d visited Larry and Christine Rogers in the Assisted Living Facility, I found in my mailbox, a handwritten envelope with a Troy , NY postmark. Since I knew no one in Troy , I thought it was probably another letter asking for my donation, but disguised by the handwritten address. Tricky. I ripped open the envelope expecting to find a letter that gave me the choice of a $50, $100, or $1,000 donation for the protection of hoot owls. To my surprise, the envelope contained a real letter that read:
Dear Mr. Callins,
I am the daughter of Larry and Christine Rogers. I live in Troy , NY , and at least twice a year, I visit them. Because the distance makes travel
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