Another week has rolled on by. Every Friday afternoon we have "Happy Hour" in the hour before dinner. The entertainer tonight was a singer who everyone appreciates. Then it's on to dinner, which became quite subdued.
Betty, who is new to our table, with the loss of Eileen to assisted living, was unhappy because "that woman" talked too loud. I told her "that woman" is Lara, who comes in almost every day to assist her mother, Gloria. I like Gloria, if for no other reason than her mother named her Gloria because she was "born in the glory of the morning". I love the little memory.
Gloria used to have three table mates, little Marge, big Marge and me. When I first moved in I was offended by big Marge, who coughed and coughed and would not wear a mask. I protested that although she said it was chronic bronchitis, she had a mouth full of alien germs, and I sure enough caught a cold that lasted four weeks.
Big and little Marge are gone, moved to assisted living. No one has been assigned to her table yet, and I've noticed Lara stays through dinner to keep Gloria company. I also remember being very unhappy at that table with three very deaf comrades with whom conversation was impossible. I may mention the table mate need to the dining room supervisor, but I have no solution.
Conversation at our table mainly concerned those who have moved on. Mary Lou especially is bothered, and since she outranks Betty and me, knows a litany of people who have "moved on". This is bothering her tonight, why we are here and how quickly we become mist that floats away and is gone.
I felt badly for her. I was the youngest when I came here, but so many have moved in since and I am startled at how young many appear. But why not, I've asked myself. It's a place to live, and most of all, it's a safe place to live. If I fall and break something else, I have a button to push.
In the last month a fairly young couple have moved in. Sixties or less. I've been told the story and don't recall most of it. Apparently the man has a terminal illness that involves his brain and is affecting his memory and reasoning. They are not married. The man will cheerfully tell you "I have a ring in my pocket, but she's not ready to take it." He was diagnosed with this problem years ago, and she said she would stay with him to the end.
Remember Joe, the darling old man who had to dance with everyone. I posted a picture of him dancing months ago. He passed away maybe six weeks ago, before this new couple moved in. The man with the ring in his pocket loves to dance. I don't know if his lady friend is as interested, but she obliges him.
I hope they dance happy hour away for a long, long time.