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.