Hanging Around the Cafe`

 

I’ve been in my new apartment a little over three weeks. Right now I'm sitting in the cafe` while people watching over steak sliders and fries looking for inspiration the way I used to do at the Guy Land Cafeteria. There are plenty of people here to watch but writing about people I may come to know well seems creepier than writing about strangers passing through my life by happenstance. There’s a woman here, for example, who is put together better than a fashion plate for Senior Living Magazine. She has model perfect hair and makeup, perfectly fitting high quality clothes. She’s a dignified, fit and trim lady with proper decorum that makes me think of mansions on The Hill. In my head I call her the Jewish Matriarch because whenever I see her I find myself sitting up straighter, making sure my knees are tucked in close together and I'm ready to say, “Yes, ma’am” if she tells me to spite out my gum. I don’t chew gum but you get the idea. In another century she’d be the Lady of the House and I’d be the scullery maid. I’m not sure how I’ll feel about myself if later on I find out my assumptions about her and others here are too far off base. Maybe it would kill my favorite head game of daydreaming back stories for strangers? But would that be such a bad thing? Their real stories might be better.

The people who work here already know my name and apartment number. It might have something to do with me being the third person to move into the complex on their second day on a new job because early on the concierge ladies, the activities director, the cafe` workers and others call me by name which shocked me because at that point I hadn’t even considered learning theirs. So I shifted gears, knowing these people are my new tribe now and I needed to make an effort to chit-chat when I have business within their job descriptions, get to know them as people. One of the concierge ladies---who others  here compare to Julie from the Loveboat---says I’m helping to train them because I’ve been the first to ask about lots of stuff like how do I get an overnight parking pass for my niece, how does the complex define ‘cardboard’ to go down the cardboard only chute, and when Amazon asks “where do I want packages left at my apartment building” which box do I check? 

The Cafe` on another day: It was last Saturday and I was trolling for blue collar people to connect with by wearing my “Fisher Body Gone But Not Forgotten” sweatshirt. For anyone who might not know it between 1908 and 1984 some of the GM/Chevrolet factories used to be named Fisher Body. My husband retired from the corporation where he was a die maker back before computers did the math involved in building the dies that stamp out the fenders, hoods, doors and other body parts on new model cars and trucks. It took a long time to build those dies and test them before sending those giant dies off to stamp out cars parts. (In case you're confused, the parking lot maintenance business he owned was his side job which paid better than his skilled trades job at Fisher Body/GM. Don was a certified workaholic which made me one too if we ever wanted to see each other.)

Anyway, I live in a town where Fisher Body once employed a hefty portion of the population and anytime my husband or I worn our FB sweatshirts---which wasn’t often---someone would always start a conversation that went something like, “My so-and-so worked at Fisher Body…” Not this time. I saw a couple of people’s eyes tracking across my chest as they read my shirt but no one said boo. Other than t-Shirt Tom I haven’t seen anyone else wearing t-shirts or sweatshirts with writing on it. And I decided that we---meaning me specifically---can’t dress in Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes every day if we’re going to be living here 24/7/365 days a year. I was making a stand, declaring that, yes, I have clothes that are 37 years old and on cold days, I like to wear sweats. 

I didn’t stay in the cafe` long because just after I got my turkey club four or five people poured in and asked the manager to change the TV channel so they could watch the University of Michigan football game. Coming up soon---actually, on the Saturday this gets published---we’re having a tailgate party here and I might go for the hot dogs and beer assuming I can hide my disinterest-bordering-on-disdain for contact sports long enough to eat. I watched ten minutes of the game today, noted the knitter in the cafe` throwing her arms up in the air a couple of times, probably losing a whole row of stitches with her enthusiasm. I have her pegged as an x-cheer leader. She’s a cute little thing who in a recent class we both attended declared, “I’m through with men!” Okay, then. It will be worth going to the tailgate party just to see if t-Shirt Tom hits on her. He's fan of college football as well. ©

If I was picking a sport based on uniforms alone, I'd pick baseball. What's not to like about them compared to a football uniform? We get to see poetry in motion and facial expressions with baseball. 

The Quest For Friendship Continues

Saturday I woke to a beautiful day in the neighborhood. The sun was streaming through the venetian blinds, the birds were chipping and the dog had spotted a rabbit outside the window which made him enormously happy. When he’s happy, no one sleeps in. It only took me one cup a coffee to decide it was time to go back to the Breakfast Only Café and after a quick shower I was out the door. I love that noisy, busy place.

I took a seat at the counter with all the other diners eating alone and soon a conversation started between three others about a book one of the women was reading. Unfortunately, I’d never read the author so I couldn’t add to the discussion but I made an important notation in my manual on How To Make Friends After Seventy: bring props along as conversation starters. Exhibit B: Another man at the counter had a fancy-ass Apple smart phone that he laid down with his car keys and that drew a question from another guy two stools down. I thought about whipping out my “granny phone” to give them a good laugh since I was sitting in between them but I suddenly got hungry for an apple pancakes and I was trying to find it on the menu before the waitress came back. These two guys were obsessed with their Apples apps!

The monthly senior hall luncheon was last week and I sat next to a woman who had also broken her arm within days of me breaking mine. So naturally we compared progress reports and I learned she’s ready to throw in the towel, doesn’t see the point of living much longer if all she’s got to look forward to is more of the same. I don’t think she was serious. God, I hope not but as I sat there surrounded by a sea elderly ladies it occurred to me there should be way to grade and tag all of us so the Debbie Downers could all sit at one table and the Cathy Crazies---who like to moon strangers on our bus trips---could all sit at another table at the opposite end of the room. All the “normal” ladies could sit in the middle of these two groups. Why? I’m a little afraid it would be Westside Story all over again if the two groups ever got fed up with listening to the one other. Grab your butter knives, ladies! There’s going to be a rumble! There must be a pharmaceutical solution to this potential problem. Perhaps the program director needs to start spiking the applesauce like I’m told they do in nursing homes?

As part of my quest to find friends I went to my second meeting of the museum committee to help raise funds for their new building and as promised, this meeting was better attended than the first. It was clear, however, that most of these people had known each other since high school a half century ago, so I was questioning my judgment in joining the historical society. But after the meeting was over 3-4 ladies introduced themselves to me and welcomed me to the group. Two even thanked me for wanting to get involved, so I’m still hopeful it could lead to some friendships. I volunteered for an auction committee called the “basket ladies” and the museum director told me that committee has the most fun of all the committees. It involves shrink wrapping smaller donated items into groupings that makes them worth the time to auction them off.

They say to have a friend you need to be a friend. I thought of that when I was talking to my broken arm twin. She’s got a good friend from her working days who comes with her to all the luncheons and the bus trips and who’s been driving her around since May because her wrist is still too messed up to get behind the wheel. Now, that is a good friend. Plus she has kids and grand-kids in the area so, unlike me, she’s got back up for emergencies. Translation: I lust after what she’s got. Did I mention that she’s chatty which is one of the reasons why I like her; she reminds me of Don before his stroke---she talks, I listen. But when she asks bold questions like, “Don’t you wish you could just throw in the towel and end it all right now?” I, in a not so tactful and shocked way, reply, “No way! I still have goals to achieve one of which is to get up every morning and see if it’s still a beautiful day in the neighborhood.” ©

From Laughter to Tears

It was early Saturday morning when I grabbed a stool at the counter of the Breakfast Only Café. You’d have to be blind not to notice the older woman sitting next to me. She was dressed in what can only be described as an outfit you’d expect a rodeo queen to be wearing----red jeans and a white satin western cut shirt that was trimmed with long red fringe, a red collar and cuffs, and pearl covered snaps. The tailoring and fit was impeccable. As I tried to figure out a nice way to ask her about the ‘Dale Evans’ outfit she said to me, “I love your glasses. I’ve always thought glasses are like jewelry for your face.”

“Thanks,” I replied. “I let the guy at the eyeglass place pick them and I think he did a good job. I get a lot of compliments on them.”

From that simple beginning we babbled back and forth like a couple of cartoon strip magpies on a clothesline. We joked and laughed, we exchanged bits of old people philosophy and personal history until our food got too cold and we had to ask for doggie boxes. Turns out she was a costumer with the local civil theatre and she liked talking to me enough that she asked if we could exchange contact information. Wow, I made a friend! If I keep going to the café on regular basis I think this place is going to turn into my Cheers---you know Cheers, that Boston bar on the old TV sitcom where everyone knows your name. I left in a happy and upbeat mood.

The farmer’s market was next on my list and today it had to share billing in town with the Start of Summer parade. It seems like everyone I meet or read about lately in my peer group has a garden to tend---including the Dale Evan look-a-like---so on a whim I bought a six pack of lettuce plants. I’ve never grown lettuce in my life and I plan to put half in containers on my deck and the other half out in the yard for the rabbits.

The parade was an interesting place to people watch and probably the most interesting person was the mime the town hires to direct traffic. He was dressed in a red French beret, long vest and he was wearing classic mime face paint. When I crossed the street he mimicked my arm in the sling and pretended to wipe tears from his eyes. Once when no cars were waiting for his directions he pulled up a pretend chair in the middle of the intersection and sat down. It was also fun to watch the town photographer walk up and down street, taking pictures of all the kids and colorful characters. Oh, my god, speaking of colorful characters I saw a girl who carried her smart phone in her butt crack, half in and half out of her very low riding hip huggers. The germ-a-phobic in me wanted to haul out a spray bottle of all-purpose cleaner and give her cell a bath. Another character was a huge man with a tiny toy breed dog balancing on his shoulder. As he proudly walked the crowed sidewalk every so often he’d say in a loud voice, “I’ve got a bird dog!” He made me laugh but another dog that watched the parade from near-by where I sat made me cry.

It was a golden retriever wearing a therapy dog vest, a Comfort Dog like those that went to Sandy Hook elementary after the massacre six months ago. I don’t know why the tears came flowing out of the blue when I first saw that dog but I had a hard time turning them off. Maybe it was because I was having such a good time at the parade and the dog reminded of all those little kids (and my husband) who will never get to go to another hometown parade? It’s hard sometimes to understand how a good mood can turn on a dime.

I talked to the dog’s handler and this particular dog had not been one from the area who went to Connecticut. This dog is still in training and was at the parade to get used to crowds and loud noises. I smiled when the handler said that and I told her I had wondered at one point who was comforting who. The dog nuzzled his face into side of my leg and let me pet him to my heart’s content, leaning into me the whole time. Obviously, the giving comfort part of his training was not something he still needed to work on. My tears had dried up by then but my upbeat mood had been replaced with the exhaustion that often comes with unexplained tears. But before going home I swung by the town cemetery to check on Don’s grave and to eat a ginger-molasses cookie I had bought at the Breakfast Only Café. I told Don about the Comfort Dog and he told me to go home and get some milk to go with that comfort cookie. And thus another misadventure in widowhood came to an end. ©