Me and Mrs. Healy

I'm getting older all the time. I was thinking ahead a bit ago, what might be going on when I'm 70. That's only nine short years away!

The house here, Grandma's old house, is getting older all the time, too, and will probably be needing more than I can give it, long-term. Realistically, it's probably going to become necessary for me to move. Not right away; there's no hurry, but eventually.

I'm thinking, if I'm 70, and I need a place to live, I could do one of several options. I could get a new house, a big investment. I could rent an apartment, where rent's always going up. Then, here's the option I've thought about more, getting a room in someone else's house.

The way I'm picturing it is I get a room in an older lady's house, someone quiet like me. No upstairs neighbors, no downstairs. Quite, demure. Like if I'm 70, she's 87. I did this once when I was 19 or 20. I needed a room -- I thought -- so I got one at an older lady's house. But things suddenly changed and I ended up spending only one night with her and left, never to return. I can't remember exactly what was going on, but it wasn't that I was itchy.

At 70, naturally I'll be completely itch-free. Settled down. Like a rock. I've already shown myself rock solid, having stayed here for 40-some years. So I'll be in no rush to vacate.

Anyway, be all that as it may, say I'm 70, nine years from now, we're going to assume I see a sign at this older lady's house. She and I meet. We hit it off, and we agree that I will pay $385 a month to have the front room. That's OK, I can swing $385 easily enough on my Social Security and the few dollars I've put back.

As time goes on, I'm happy with Mrs. Healy's place, and we share a lot of good times in the living room. She's got some sewing projects, and bit by bit I'm taking on a lot of responsibilities. Getting soot out of the heater, poking cobwebs up in the corners, putting plastic on windows before winter, clearing the walk, going out for juice, etc.

I like the idea of being helpful, even if I am her paying boarder. We're cozy, and I'm protective of her well-being. After a while, we're like two old shoes together. We go halvsies on a new couch, and a new chair for the corner where she sits. It's quite a daring purchase, since she's had the chair since-- Well, she and the late Mr. Healy bought it 45 years ago.

Mrs. Healy has two daughters, and they occasionally check on her. They really love me, because I've been good for Mom, a breath of fresh air, and helpful. One of the thing's Mom used to do for them was cook a big Thanksgiving meal. Now we've restarted the tradition, with Mom pitching in where she can, a labor of love.

All the stuff I'm doing, it's all great for Mom. I have a place to live. The two daughters are great. They have kids, who like to go fishing once in a while at the park pond. Mom's even out, busying herself around the shelter house while the grand kids and I clean fish.

Pretty soon, we've essentially pooled our resources and we're doing fine. The $385 has long gone by the wayside, since I'm spending a lot more than that anyway, on the house, groceries, whatever. But I love it. All the companionship of Mom, the daughters, the grand kids, checking their homework. Giving them $10 for each A. Like any grandpa should.

Finally, Mrs. Healy gets ill -- so sad -- and we're all together at the hospital. The family needs a rock, which I provide. No one has stories of her like I have, of all the goodness she had, of her family, of the way she always kept Thanksgiving, and so forth. I have a great quote from her: "I've always wanted to hit 100, but if I don't, I've been so happy. Everything's been fantastic. I wish blessings on my grandchildren, my daughters, and Moss Stipple, my boarder."

The daughters insist I stay in the house. But I insist, No, it is rightly their inheritance. I get it prepared for sale, they make all sorts of money on it. I'm practically a father to them, and certainly a good old grandpa for the kids. But I move across town, their husbands helping me with my things, and obviously I have a great reference from them.

By now I'm about 80 myself. The next old lady I live with turns out to be an old reprobate, a gambler, a drinker, etc. Through sheer goodness, and the positive example I show everyday, I reform her and we both live happily ever after. She's still cranky, but always improving herself.

OK, so all that's one possibility. The thing about the future, though, is it never works out the way you picture it. My luck, I might get the reprobate first. Which when I move out -- in the event we don't live happily ever after -- dings my reference slightly. But I'm still a rock and later Mrs. Healy takes me in.

Those Boxes Of Soil From Home

What is it in us -- what drive? -- that makes us want to fill up boxes of soil from our home and sleep in them? I know it's an odd question, because normally we just take it for granted that that's the way it is, simply what we do. There doesn't have to be a reason.

Still, I'm not ashamed to admit it -- in fact I'm a little proud -- that sometimes I question things and wonder why. I believe it shows I have an open mind, and hopefully you can agree that orthodoxies mean more to us when we periodically examine them, then embrace them afresh, giving them our own conscious assent. I used to ask the same things in church, wondering why we handle snakes and drink strychnine.

The thing with the boxes and soil, though, I think the answers are generally clear. We have a homing instinct, just as other creatures do. Pigeons, salmon, swallows, and the dam-building beaver, which famously prefers to chew trees from the land of its birth. But we human beings tend to range farther from our homes, not on a given instinctual path, taking road trips everywhere, jaunts, excursions, and cruises. I read something the other day that blew my mind, that people are taking more day trips, even exploring their own state, thanks to the higher cost of gasoline.

So we range afar, each going our own direction. But there's one thing we have in common: We prefer the soil of home! Meaning, of course, it can be something of a sacrifice, with the extra space it takes in our vehicles, to be transporting large quantities of the earth all around the country, and even around the world, but still we do it. Albeit in our own ways. I normally take it in a garment bag; I lay it out in the trunk, and if it's evenly spread, it doesn't take up much room. And I've gotten used to buying disposable cardboard sleeping boxes, which of course saves a ton of room as well.

I said, then, the drive was part of our homing instinct. But surely there's more to it, since so often we are not driven by pure instinct. And doing it by habit would be a given. I just think there have to be more conscious reasons as well. For me, and I've heard this all my life from others as well, I just have an easier time sleeping, knowing that soil from home, from my own yard, undergirds me. It looks familiar, it smells familiar, and it just feels better! Like a favorite pillow or piece of tree bark, you just like having it near.

Other than that, there's also the whole issue of our mortality. We're very strong with the conviction that if we die it should be at home. There's something unseemly -- this conviction runs deep -- about dying away from home. So dying in your sleep, lying there on a layer of your own soil, is the next best thing. I'm perfectly content with it. I can go to sleep every night, knowing that wherever I am and whatever happens, if I live or I die, it's my own soil I'm doing it on!

It's a great custom, if custom's the right word for it. And obviously it's going to continue, world without end, as long as we don't run out of soil. We love the old ways.

There's No Place Like Home

I'm up with the chickens today. It's a beautiful day, like in a musical. The sets are all idealized like that. Looking out, the garage and tools and things setting around it look like the backdrop for the Opry, well swept. I might go out and yodel a few happy tunes and work with a lasso.

I'm puttering around. Thank God for the house patching industry. They were here and got the place fixed up. I'm shivering thinking about what it would've been like if the Grangers had taken the freezer right through the wall. It would've made a better story ... that's about it. As it is, I had them leave a few bullet holes, in case the place is ever made into a museum.

I've heard of that being done. We went to a museum. Some guys had robbed the bank, like 1890, then hid out in the museum. They shot holes in the wall, which are carefully preserved to this day. So, see, the town is saying, "Thank God for those robbers back then or we wouldn't have anything to be proud of today." It makes you think if you went there to rob the bank today, they'd give you a big bouquet and ask what took you so long!

But the life of crime is no life for me. Nor is the life of crime-solving. Nor is the life of running around the countryside investigating, trying to stamp out organizations who prey upon their fellow man. As for today, anyway, I'll leave that to those who know how. I was getting too personally involved anyway. I'd be almost willing to overlook their crimes for a chance with Lemaperu. And her mom wasn't half bad either. But it'll never be.

Which is OK. Because today I'm singing the old refrain, "Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home." How often did they tell me that over the years? Too many! It humbles my heart that so often I live like it isn't so. I look at these four walls -- thinking of this room in particular -- and think Wow, I'm cooped up. This isn't a life for a full grown man. If I'm willing to live here, why would I neglect the rest of the world? But as soon as you do, what happens? You get shot down. I about got shot down right here, when the world came calling.

No, here are my things. A stack of CDs. This computer. A glass of milk. A cup of tea. The tie I wear to funerals. An empty candy bag. My hot jazz hat. Other things. I need to appreciate what I have. And where I have it. This old house.

Someday, I suppose it's bound to happen ... Grandma will die. And some guys will carry her out on a stretcher. But until that day! ... Until that day we will live life to the fullest right here!

Then some years later, however many, who knows? I myself will pass on. I'll just be sitting here. Or maybe I'll be curled up in bed. Maybe I'll feel a hot rush flooding my heart or brain. Maybe I'll see the lights of glory. And raise my arms until they collapse in that final ecstasy. It's bound to happen, sad as it sounds. I'll probably lay there and rot before someone finds me. Then the same guys will bring in their stretcher. They'll have their faces bound up or under big gas masks. They might carry the whole bed out in the yard and pick me up with a machine to avoid infection. Then set the bed afire -- my estate be d---ed!

I don't mind talking about it. Then the museum people can come in and get things arranged for the tourists. Whose first question will be what happened to his bed. It'll be an interesting story. He died alone and no one noticed him, etc. And right there on the lawn is where it burnt.

Not exactly the Fantasy World of Harry Faversham, but it's something to think about on a beautiful day. I don't mind starting with a cold shiver. ... But this is my desk and these are my things. There's no place like home. None, nada. If there's anywhere else like it, I'd be interested in knowing where.