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I hope, when I’m 90 and living in an Assisted Living place, that I have children and grandchildren who will come see me. I hope I am living somewhere with family just up the street, who will take me to dinner occasionally. I hope I will be remembered. I hope that the best part of the day *won’t* be when some woman with a dog, who’s bored and all, just knocks on my door to say hello.
Because that would be really, really pathetic.
What does it say when a man who built a house with his own hands, who fought in a war, and was decorated for it…what does it mean when the happiest day of the week is the one where a person he’d never met comes in with a silly little dog and talks about politics with him? Why does that upset me so? Why is it so hard for people to take an hour to spend with someone?
You know, old people are just like any other people, only slower and with more perspective. They’re like little kids with experience, in that they don’t care what kind of car you drive or where you go to church. They just want someone to talk to them, to treat them like they matter. Isn’t that what we’d all like?
Today, Mr. Al and I talked about bass fishing. He has a rod&reel hanging on his wall, and Willow Pond is so named for a reason. I asked if he went fishing, and he said he’d like to, but fishing alone isn’t as fun as doing it with a buddy. (Huh. I thought. #3 likes to fish.). He told me of the 29 pound striped bass he caught once. I told him about catfish noodling. He was suitably appalled, saying “You wind up catching alot more than catfish, I bet.”
He liked Rosy, asked me to bring her again next time. Rosy KNOWS how to suck up to old guys. She curled up in his lap and fell asleep. He was utterly charmed.
Well, the whole thing has me feeling a little strange. And committed. Maybe this is the direction my calling lays.