Scene from our village

   

  

Our condo community is not one of those “over 55 only” complexes.
The football coach of the town’s high school and his teens live a few doors down the street. Still, about the only time you hear children’s voices is when the kids are on vacation, visiting grandma and grandpa. And the number of retirees far outnumbers those still working.

          The other day I realized it might be a good thing to have a few millenials or even generation Xs around.  I had harnessed up Mamie for her walk and started down the street. We live just before a curve, so my view was blocked by a tree and several bushes but I could hear someone calling “Hello!?” “Hello!!”

          We rounded the bend and there was my neighbor ‘Irene’, a peppery 80+ year-old with the vocabulary of a longshoreman. She was half-sitting, half-lying on her garage floor, barefoot, her flip-flops scattered. Mamie and I hurried over. Assessing the situation, I determined that Irene was unhurt, but unable to get up. She had, in her words, fallen “watering those goddam flowers.” The garage floor was wet and the garden hose lay around her.

          Irene’s much shorter than me, but has exactly the same build as the fire hydrant that sits in front of our house, and probably weighs in at about the same poundage as me.  I’m in pretty good shape but doubted my ability to lift her on my own. What to do.

          My immediate options – who did I know nearby?

          Her husband – he’s in rough shape due to some form of cancer.

          The widow across the street from me had recently fallen herself and is now using a walker.

          The widow’s next door neighbors are both in their upper 80s,

          The couple that shares our driveway are older than us, and the husband is himself unable to walk.

          Our immediate next door neighbors – both hale and hearty in what looks like their early 60s – were off on another cross-country motorcycle trip.

          Their immediate neighbor is a recent widow I had only met once.

          My Guy was home, but I didn’t trust his back.

          One heave confirmed I couldn’t bring her to her feet. I looked around the garage and spotted the small flatbed cart she uses to take out her trash. It turned out to be just enough for her to lean on as I lifted, and somehow we got her up.

          She thanked me, insisted she was all right, and shuffled off to the house. She had to get in there to baste the chicken since she was having company to boost her husband’s morale and hopefully get him to eat something.

          Mamie and I went on our way.