Stories from Brooke Grove

John lies in his bed most of the time. He doesn’t sleep—he just stares out the window lying on his side on the bed. He is tired of life: now he is sick and old. Allison just turned 94 years old. He points to a photo in the room of another man. He says it’s his best friend and that they talk on the phone every week. He is also 94. The two friends have known each other since elementary school.
“Twenty more years and I’ll be knocking on Heaven’s door,” John said.
John always says maybe he’ll check out the activities going on in the main part of the building (Brooke Grove has “life enrichment” activities for the residents every morning and afternoon): but I don’t think he ever does. He just lies back down—he’s experienced it all at 94. He says soon he will talk to his daughter on the phone. He says he walks up and down the hallways of Brooke Grove for exercise.
“Brooke Grove is a nice place,” he says. It’s “not home,” he says but it’s “next to home.”
John has earned his rest at 94. He’s worked hard in his life—now he’s worn out. He served as a liutenant in World War II, he was the first African American male teacher in Montgomery County after the schools were integrated, and he was a community coordinator for suspended and retarded kids. He also served as an assistant principal and taught mathematics, including algebra. During summers off, he traveled a lot.
John played all the sports in school. But baseball and golf remained his favorites. “I was too light for football,” he said.
A photo album on an end table next to John's bed is filled with letters from respectable people bidding him farewell upon his retirement.
Inside the bottom dresser drawer in John's room are special Halloween bags. John made them for his grandchildren. I suppose they are bags for the grandchildren to trick-or-treat with.
After he tells the story of his life, he always ends with: “And that’s about it,” in his sort of raspy voice.
Sarah lies in a wheelchair. Her arms are big and bulky and her legs oversized. That is all she can do now. She moves her arms with effort. She can only push her wheelchair a little with her arms. When she lifts my purse to hold it on her lap while a push her to Brooke Grove’s library, she can barely take hold of the purse. Her hands are open to get the purse, joyful to be able to pick something up. Sarah has no surviving relatives. She’s say she’s the only one of her relatives still alive. She also says sometimes she thinks even she won’t make it. Sarah was the baby of her family. She says she was a surprise baby to her parents.
Sarah has no children. “I’ve always loved children,” she says, but “we” never had any children, she says. She was too busy being a “mom” to her numerous nieces and nephews.
Sarah's husband was killed in WWII. After he died, she had numerous offers of marriage, she said. Luta said men asked if she intended to stay a widow the rest of her life when she refused their offers of marriage. Sarah responded that her husband gave his life for the country, so she would sacrifice her life as well by never remarrying.
Sarah says, “They got me in therapy now.” Apparently, it’s some sort of physical therapy with a light.
Then there is Henry who kisses every woman’s hand. He says to me that he likes to do that for the “ladies.”
Over in the Meadows is Jack. When we were singing a song that had the words “toot toot” he’d say that part with expression. That same man is excellent at making up rhymes! He says he was a research chemist. But he says he started playing with language along the way.