There was a nursing home called Phoenixville Manor just a block away from our new house. I noticed an article in the local paper looking for volunteers. I had never been in a nursing home before. I didn't know what to expect yet I applied. I wasn't doing anything else, and instead of sitting around all day, doing nothing, it was something to keep me busy. That little voice inside, which guided me many times over the years, told me to visit the nursing home. So I did.
I worked in the Gift Shop and ended up volunteering for several years. I still hadn't decided what I wanted to do with my life so I had time to think and hope that something came my way.
The Gift Shop was a fun place to work because I got to meet many of the residents who drifted in doing the day to browse or buy small items, like candy bars. It gave the residents some independence to shop on their own.
One couple that came in daily was Bill and Dolly. Both were always dressed to the gills, like two figurines on top of a wedding cake. Bill was normally decked out in a suit, tie and fedora hat, Dolly generally wore a dress, heels and necklace. They were both short, in their 80s and cute. All dressed up with no place to go, other than up and down the halls.
Bill thought we had worked together in another life. He sat on the sofa in the middle of the shop and chatted about our days working for the Pennsylvania Railroad. Dolly patiently waited for him to finish his conversation, then off they went again, holding each other under the arm, slowly pacing down the hallway. Dolly occasionally whacked Bill over the head with her handbag for no apparent reason, which didn't seem to faze him.
I learned that I could easily talk to older people and enjoyed it, and they seemed to like me too. Maybe they trusted me because I was willing to listen, or maybe they looked at my disability differently then most of the world. They seemed to trust me, like I had a clue what they may be going through.
I soon became a fixture at the nursing home, not only volunteering in the Gift Shop, but doing part-time odd jobs, such as making posters for the Activities Department, putting my past art skills to good use. I must have made thousands of posters and signs over the years.
I had a purpose in life now. I couldn't wait to get up in the morning and wheel the block to the nursing home. I was making friends there and people needed me, which made me feel good.
During the summer I was assigned to spend time with John. He was a friendly elderly gentleman, most likely in his nineties, always dressed in western garb, a string tie and vest, always in brown. He grew up in Philadelphia, hardly the Old West. For some reason he often neighed like a horse between sentences., out of pain or habit or both.
He reminded me of Grandpa from the classic movie "The Grapes of Wrath."
The Social Worker and Activities Director thought it would be a good idea for me to visit John for an hour or so after I closed the Gift Shop at 3:00. John had a family but they rarely visited him. He was lonely and could use a friend. He felt forgotten. Staff became like surrogate families for residents who never saw a familiar family face other than on Christmas.
John and I became quick pals.I met him for the first time sitting in his wheelchair at the second floor nursing station., head in hands ( which I soon learned was a regular pose for John), dozing off as he waited for a cigar.
I hated to wake him up but after a few taps on the shoulder he lifted his head, befuddled, mumbling, "Who the hell..." before spotting me, his thin, wispy white hair a little messed up. I shook his hand, introduced myself, and he eyed me suspiciously with his sharp blue eyes, wondering what a "young fella' like me wanted with a forgotten old guy like him." What did I want?
We started talking about anything and everything: the weather, sports, anything to break the ice and find some common ground. John enjoyed to reminisce, so I allowed him to do most of the talking. Listening turned out to be a valuable tool down the road as I learned that most residents really wanted someone just to listen to them.
John was proud to show me his grainy, yellow photos that he kept in his pocket and under a leg, photos of himself as a young man, his wife, his children, old cars, old clothes. nothing current. Everything was from the past.
He laughed at himself, musing 'Didn't I look good back then?"
"I grew up in Philadelphia when Broad Street was a prairie," he said, laughing in that nanny goat way of his. He stared at those memories for minutes , perhaps wishing he could transport his quickly aging, fragile body through the photos and return to his youth and better days.
It was fascinating to gaze at the styles of clothing, the different kinds of automobiles and old houses. John's memories and stories were fun to listen to, even though he tended to repeat himself often, and he insisted on staring at the same pictures each time I visited.
Maybe it was closure, a way of validating his life. I imagined everything he had seen in life, all the history this guy saw and lived through. He reminded me of my late Uncle Henry. I was a captive audience again, but I really did enjoy his reflections and appreciated our chats maybe as much as he did.
"My daughter!" he would suddenly exclaim. 'What a great girl. " His words faded off like the fading photos.. It had to be so painful to know she didn't visit anymore.I could relate to his loneliness. We had more in common then he imagined.
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