A Character Study from my CCC: Alphabet Soup and Social Glue

Some people reveal themselves slowly, like novels that take a few chapters to settle in. Others arrive fully formed — bright, unmistakable, and impossible to ignore. In this week’s dispatch from life inside a continuum care community, Jean turning her observational lens toward one such resident: a woman whose energy, quirks, and kindness shape the social weather of the place. What begins as a simple invitation to a “J Party” becomes a character study of the sort of neighbor who keeps a campus stitched together with birthday cards, gossip, and a surprising amount of alphabetical desserts… AI

Last night I went to a “J Party.” What’s that, you ask? So did I when I was first heard about it. Before I explain, let me backtrack a little.

When I first meet people, I make snap decisions about them — whether I’m going to like that person or not. Over time, as I’ve gotten to know people, I can’t think of a single time I’ve changed my mind about that first impression. Call me stubborn and judgmental or insightful and intuitive; I don’t care which. I’m just stating a fact about my character.

When I first met our resident cheerleader here on the continuum care campus, I didn’t know she’d actually been one in high school and college. I didn’t know she’d spent most of her career as a kindergarten teacher or that she’d been married more times than our current president. I didn’t know she’d be the kind of neighbor who makes sure everyone in the building gets handmade birthday cards, or that she’d be the one who puts a basket in our mail room to collect cards when someone is in the hospital or when a resident passes away. All I knew was that I liked her from the first moment we met, and I gave her the Cheerleader nickname.

Later on I gave her a second nickname: The Ambassador. If our concierge is not at her desk, the Cheerleader jumps up from a dinner or lunch table to help visitors find who (or what) they’re looking for. She knows everyone’s apartment number. And if the stranger is a Looky-Loo, she’ll know everything there is to know about them by the time they walk out the door. Call her nosy or curious — I go back and forth on that one.

The only thing about her that annoys me is her attitude about people from the neighborhood who walk our 40 acre campus to enjoy our woods and lake. She’s not alone; a few others here think that because we pay the taxes and upkeep on the property, strangers shouldn’t be allowed to walk our roads and sidewalks. They even campaigned to get signage put up declaring our campus private property. Those of us on the other side of the debate were delighted when the signs didn’t slow down the dog walkers, joggers and nature lovers. And heaven forbid she sees someone put a bag of dog poop in one of our trash cans — I’ve seen her more than once get up from a meal and run outside to confront them. But as foibles go, if this is the worst thing I can say about a person, then give me a whole building full of like-personalities.

Now onto the “J Party.” Ms. Cheerleader has this weekly project where she’s working her way through the alphabet by inviting people whose names begin with the same letter to dinner in our dining room, followed by dessert in her apartment. Last night it was the “J” table. There were six of us: three Jeans and three Judys, plus our host. She served jello in fancy footed champagne glasses. For the “D” table she served donuts. The “B’s” got brownies.

I’ve known all the other Jeans and Judys for a long time, but it surprised me how different our conversation was when we didn’t have to worry about eavesdroppers. We laughed a lot, gossiped a little, and got the ten‑minute tour of Ms. Cheerleader’s apartment. She was quick to point out her twin-size bed: “When I moved here,” she proudly announced, “I decided I was through sharing a bed with a man!” I didn't share the fact that I went from a twin to a full-sized bed when I moved in, I guess, out of  fear she'd erroneously read something into that decision.

Not surprising, Ms. Cheerleader's place was as blonde as she is — her hair is long and champagne-colored, her skin very fair with pale blue eyes that match the accent color of her decor. Even her carpeting and living room furniture are white. We didn’t sit in there to drink our non-alcoholic sparkling red grape juice, for which I was grateful.

Why? That same afternoon I got my stitches out and I acquired an awkward splint on my dominant pointer finger. Eating and drinking was — and will be — a challenge for the next four weeks. I haven’t mentioned this before, but two weeks ago I had the arthritis scraped out of a joint, the joint fused together, and a screw put down the middle of my finger from its tip to just short of the knuckle. Two years ago that same joint had surgery to remove a myxoid cyst. I felt silly going to the surgical center for these procedures — it’s so First World at a time when so many others around the globe are living with hardships of wars, wildfires, and other devastating conditions beyond their control. But I’d put up with getting jabbed with a jolt of pain every time I typed, picked up a pen, or opened a cupboard door long enough. And not getting it done wasn’t going to help anyone else. Ms. Cheerleader has been concerned about my finger from the get-go. She kept threatening to put googly eyes on my bandages and now on my splint.

The social makeup of places like my CCC is mostly shaped by the people who live in them. We are lucky to have a woman like Ms. Cheerleader here. And if you’re looking for a similar place to move, ask if there are any retired kindergarten teachers in residence. I’d bet money they all have the same, engaging glow and playful energy — and a stash of silly sweaters for every holiday.

Should I do more posts like this? I can't decide. All I know for sure is that small portraits like this — the quirks, the kindnesses, the odd habits — are part of what gives this community its heartbeat. And if nothing else, writing word pictures of my neighbors reminds me that even in a place where we’re all in the same stage of life, there’s no shortage of characters worth noticing. ©

Until Next Wednesday.

 After surgery.

 

Before the stitched came out.

The splint I have to wear until August 24th.

My Apocalyptic Michigan Summer: Smoke, Parasites, and Other Delights

 

This summer, Michigan feels less like a state and more like a testing ground for whatever fresh disaster the universe wants to beta‑test. Jean was hunting for a topic to write about this week then Michigan, never one to miss an opportunity for dramatic flair, said, “Hold my beer,” and delivered smoke, parasites, bedbugs, and even a grocery store suspending carry-out service like it was a preview for the end of time. And because she lives right in the middle of it, she gets a front‑row seat to the chaos, complete with hazy skies, health alerts, and the occasional reminder that our global connections are far more tangled — and far more fragile — than we like to admit…. AI

Michigan is one of twenty states affected by the unhealthy air quality caused by smoke drifting down from the historic number of wildfires in Northern Ontario. The sky has been a dull haze — the kind you mistake for fog until you step outside and get a lungful of it. It was so thick today that the one grocery store in town that still has “bag boys” that take your purchases out to your car wasn’t offering the service. OSHA doesn’t forbid outdoor work during wildfire smoke, but they do say employers should offer NIOSH‑approved masks for voluntary use, give workers frequent indoor breaks, and reschedule strenuous tasks.

Welcome to Trump’s there’s‑no‑global‑warming world. As of this writing, he has blocked federal U.S. waterbombers from assisting across the border, even though Canada sent their firefighting air teams to California last fall. He’s also threatening Canada with a tariff on “cross‑border pollution,” claiming they’re “willfully negligent” about "keeping their forest floors raked." Canada has 912 million acres of forest — 40% of their land mass — and only 41.1 million people. Even if “raking the forest floor” were the answer, where exactly would they find the workforce? And where will we get the lumber to build houses if we keep slapping tariffs on a country that used to be one of our closest allies?

Rant off — in case you didn’t know it was on.

I didn’t see many people wearing masks while I was out, but I did talk to one man who said he wished he’d grabbed one before leaving home. I have a stash of masks in my car left over from the pandemic, but it never occurred to me to put one on until after that conversation. Even then, I didn’t do it. Why? Because those masks have been hanging behind my driver’s seat for several years. Who knows what microscopic yuck they’ve been harboring. When I got home, I tossed them straight into the washing machine. No telling how long it will take for the smoke to clear out. I just might need them. 

Since I’m already in a doom‑and‑gloom mood: Michigan is also dealing with a health alert involving the microscopic cyclosporia parasite, which has caused over 5,000 confirmed cases of severe, “explosive diarrhea” and more than 100 hospitalizations in Michigan alone. (Last year, RFK Jr. ended the CDC's required surveillance of the parasite, which in the past kept these kinds of widespread outbreaks from happening.) If untreated, the diarrhea can last from two weeks to a month. Contact tracing is difficult because symptoms don’t show up right away — they appear five days to two weeks after exposure. Salad greens are the suspected culprit. Thankfully, I’ve been on a high‑protein diet and haven’t had a salad in almost two months. (Side note: I was at the doctor’s today and the official word is I’m down 20.8 pounds since May 15th.)

And as if smoke and parasites aren’t enough, Michigan was recently named as having three of the worst hot spots in the nation for bedbug infestations. I need to stop reading public‑service notifications. Today I learned I live in the tenth worst city in the nation for bedbugs. I am not sitting on any fabric‑covered chairs in public places until further notice! And needless to say, I’m not sleeping in any stranger’s beds either — not that I’ve been asked in the last fifty years. But if Brad Pitt came along, I’d jump in his bed even if it meant he’d have to call security. Between the smoke, the parasites, and the bedbugs, I swear, at this point I’m one emergency alert away from answering the door wearing a hazmat suit and oven mitts.

Back on topic: Years ago my mother‑in‑law’s house had bedbugs, and how they got in was shocking. She had a live‑in caregiver who, unbeknownst to the family, had a hobby of writing to prisoners. On her days off, she went to state prisons to meet some of the men she’d been corresponding with where she was gifted with the critters.

Bedbugs are known to spread from one care facility to another via workers who hold multiple jobs in multiple facilities. If our Assisted Living or Memory Care buildings ever get bedbugs, they’d quickly spread to my Independent Living building because many spouses live in IL while their partners are in one of the other buildings. It’s one of the selling points of continuum‑care campuses — a short walk gets you a daily visit (conjugal or otherwise) without driving halfway across town.  

Oh, yes, Michigan doesn’t need a state motto — it needs a warning label. 

The ecosystems around the world are becoming more and more interconnected, and disasters in one region ripple outward — whether it’s a war that disrupts shipping lines, a pandemic that refuses to stay on one continent, or produce that isn’t handled properly and ends up being distributed far and wide. We’ve come a long way in the last hundred years; towns no longer dump factory waste and raw sewage into rivers. But I still wonder how people back then couldn’t see that that was a bad idea. Just as I wonder how someone can sit in the Oval Office and be so short‑sighted and vindictive against our neighbors to the north. Call it Karma or cause and effect, everything that goes around, comes around. ©

See you all next Wednesday. In the meantime, let's all keep Canada in our hearts and thoughts. It's not only the forests they are losing to the fires, but also lives, homes and wildlife. 

The Distant Star Theory of Blogging

The legendary 1930’s essay ‘In Awe of Words’ often circles back to the quiet reasons we write — the rhythms that steady us, the connections that surprise us, and the memories that tug us forward. In this reflection, Jean revisits an old pandemic-era post, a favorite Steinbeck quote, and the complicated dance between observing life and participating in it. What emerges is a meditation on friendship, aging, and the strange, sustaining companionship of blogging… AI

Every so often an old post shows up in my “Most Read in the Last Seven Days” column, and I'll know people have been poking around in my archives, maybe even shared one of my links. If the title doesn’t ring that proverbial bell, I’ll click on it myself. That’s what happened with a piece I wrote during the pandemic six years ago. When I opened This Too Shall Pass… I found one of my all-time favorite quotes by John Steinbeck — a quote worth repeating in this forum of bloggers who enjoy the art of writing for whatever reason: personal pleasure, documenting our lives, or monetizing our blogs in hopes of fame or fortune.

If I had done the latter and been paid a penny a click over the past ten years, I would have made $46,254.97. Roughly $4,625.50 a year. Hoop dee doo. I’m glad I never did that. Money makes you a slave to the consumer of your content.

Nope. Steinbeck nailed my reasons for blogging In Awe of Words when he wrote:

“A writer out of loneliness is trying to communicate like a distant star sending signals. He isn’t telling or teaching or ordering. Rather he seeks to establish a relationship of meaning, of feeling, of observing. We are lonesome animals. We spend all life trying to be less lonesome. One of our ancient methods is to tell a story begging the listener to say — and to feel — ‘Yes, that’s the way it is… You’re not as alone as you thought.’”

That quote still hits me like a tuning fork.

In a reply to one of the comments on that old post, I wrote that blogging gives a rhythm to my weeks. That’s still true. But it’s also becoming more important, now, for me to connect with people out in cyberspace because I feel more and more disconnected from the people I live with here in my Continuum Care Community.

That’s partly because roughly a quarterly of the original residents that all moved in when I did (when the place was brand-new) have died or had to move to other buildings for more care. And every time that happens its a reminder that life is fragile. But it's also partly my own fault. I chose the double life I’m living as a kind of undercover reporter writing about my fellow residents. I observe. I make judgments, fair or otherwise. I hold nothing back when I write. But in person I hold back most of what’s going on in my head. On one hand, you can’t make deeper connections without taking risks and sharing our thoughts. On the other hand, civilized society doesn’t stay civil if we vocalize every observation and thought out loud in close-knit places like this. I have causal friends here, but no one close.

Early on, when management was looking for someone to write a weekly column for the CCC’s blog, my name came up because I started the creative writing club. But I refused. It sounded too hard to write about all the events going on while keeping my personal observations and quirky humor in check. I learned that lesson back in the ’80s when I wrote my first family history book and characterized the hometown of my nieces and nephew in a way my oldest niece didn’t think was fair. She was editing the book, and I ended up softening my description. That experience taught me that writing for community consumption is different from writing about a community. The family history book wasn’t about me, nor would an official CCC blog be — nor should they be. “Just give me the facts, ma’am,” as Sergeant Joe Friday supposedly said on Dragnet.

Except he didn’t. When I googled it, AI told me Joe Friday never actually said that line. What he said was, “All we want are the facts, ma’am.” A radio parody cemented the version we all remember.

And this — right here — is the point in my post where I’m supposed to come up with something profound or universal. Something that ties all these threads together. Something that makes readers nod and think, Yes, that’s the way it is for me, too.

But damn if that doesn’t get harder to do the older I get.

I look back on the friendships I’ve treasured over the years and I see a pattern: complete trust, a shared sense of humor, mutual respect for each other’s opinions, and the ability to really see each other — foibles and all. That kind of connection doesn’t come along every day. And it doesn’t always stay the same.

Friendship has been on my mind for a couple of months now, ever since my best friend since kindergarten was moved to an assisted living facility. She calls me sometimes ten to twenty times a day. I’ve changed her ringtone to something unique so I don’t have to run to find my phone every time it rings. And I’ve made it a rule to answer her only once a day. When I do, I put on my Clown Hat and entertain her with stories about life in my CCC or about our shared experiences growing up. She talks about the same theme every day — how she wants someone to take her home. I leave her laughing. She leaves me exhausted.

In days past, we walked back and forth to school every day of grade school and high school. We did everything together. We taught each other what friendship truly is. I thank the powers of the universe for putting us together all those years ago. And now we’ve come full circle with a slew of daily phone calls about nonsense and nothing not unlike what we used to do as boy-crazy teenagers.

Maybe that’s the universal thread I’ve been trying to find: connection doesn’t disappear as we age — it just changes shape. It becomes more intentional, more fragile, more precious. Sometimes it happens in the dining room or on a park bench here on campus. Sometimes it happens in a phone call about nothing. And sometimes it happens in the quiet space between a writer and a reader, we're like a distant star sends out a signal and hoping someone will feel the vibration and think, Yes. That’s the way it is for me, too. ©