Senioritis on the farm




 

 


I just saw a video about a retired elephant who bonded with a dog as they shared their golden years together in a Tennessee retirement community for . . . elephants. Unlikely as it seems, I thought the story was charming, so over the dinner table on a cold, rainy night in Thousand Oaks, I shared it with my kids, expecting them to embrace the tender tale and marvel over love and devotion in the animal kingdom.

“Hey, Mom, I think that’s where we’ll send you when you’re done with the circus out here,” the frequently pregnant daughter laughed with that “ha, I really got you on that one” look in her oh-so-fertile, devious brown eyes. Cracking herself up, she took a bite of her favorite Chili Gop I thoughtfully prepared for her.

She likes her own jokes. I turned to my sweet son-in-law, who always comes to my rescue. Even though I’d schlepped to Costco for his favorite shrimp cocktail and made sure I had Heineken in the fridge, the lousy creep chimed in with my plucky offspring.

“Yeah,” the tall kid said, “we’ll visit you and bring peanuts. Maybe.”

It seems like that’s the name of the game today. Peanuts for the elderly. What do we do with all these old people who take drugs to keep their arteries running clearer than Crater Lake, their blood pressure controlled like the valves of Hoover Dam and live forever without an exit strategy or the common sense of a three-toed gecko? Not that I’m thrilled that my kid is planning to ship me to Tennessee to hang with the pachyderms, but, honestly, she’s reflecting what she hears. Which is a great deal of anguished conversation about my aged in-laws.

“Dad says if he can’t take it with him, then he just won’t go,” says Grumps, my sweet husband, of his 84-year-old father living on the farm in Illinois where he was born.

In the farmhouse there’s a dreadfully steep staircase down to the basement where the washer, dryer and a graveyard of Lazy-Boy chairs commune. The “Boss,” as he calls himself, toddles up and down those stairs, tending to the chores of the day and the caregiving of his invalid wife of 63 years. We have begged them to get help.

“They steal from ya.”

“Dad, they’re bonded. They’ll do your laundry, drive Mom to dialysis and clean the house. You’re exhausted.”

The Boss picks up the clicker, turns to “The Price Is Right” and sinks into a turbo easy chair equipped with an automatic lift powerful enough to launch him right into one of the silos.

“We’re gettin’ along fine. I sure wish we could get the quadcities clearer on this cable thing.” What on earth is a quad city?

He continues to divert.

“Have you seen the new Buicks? Beautiful. Don’t know why they ever got rid of the Le Sabre, though.”

Too bad the Boss isn’t into hired help like he’s into Buicks. But it’s his sweet bride who worries us. Her diet, the housekeeping, her hair and organisms of all flavors in all corners of the formerly immaculate house are undulating and percolating and Lord only knows if atomic fusion on the farm is next.

“We sure need some rain.” The Boss cleverly directs the conversation away from spending money and to precipitation. Besides, out there in America’s heartland, weather is always an attention-getter.

Rain or shine, I don’t pack an evening gown when I visit. Just rubber gloves, Lava soap and Advil. We start with bleach and scrub until we’re in the dead bug position. Then it’s nighty-night in a double bed where my husband and I, not exactly petite, spend the next eight hours jockeying for territory. My husband sings a few bars of “Why do birds suddenly appear every time you are near? Just like me, they long to be close to you.” Trying to get a laugh, he grabs a bigger share of the blanket, which is fine with me since the temperature in the house is about 84 degrees year round.

But this time, he’s flying solo to the farm. Work obligations are keeping me here. Still, Grumps perseveres with questionable optimism. “I’m going to spend a week in Hotel Hell,” he laments.

Come to find out, he’s got plan B all figured out.

“And I’m stopping at WalMart in Kewanee and buying vodka.”

Don’t forget the orange juice. And the peanuts. Guess the bleach will have to wait.

You can reach Elizabeth Kirby at kirby@theacorn.com.

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