A Waldo Gathering

Paul and Betty are outgoing and hospitable, with a gracious home situated on several acres, a pleasant escape from our little townhouse on a busy street.  They enjoy getting everybody together for a meal.  Today’s event presents a chance to visit with Heidi and her husband, Jim, who’ve come from Boston to spend some time with our niece, Keri, Leanne’s daughter.  Keri, not yet forty-five, has ovarian cancer and has suffered through two unsuccessful rounds of chemo.  She’s always been one of my favorite Waldos.  Easy-going, with an innate sense of fun, she’s not one to judge or force her opinions on others.  She’s into piercings and tattoos and colorful hair (teal now, the color representative of ovarian cancer).  I’ve never heard her say a mean thing about anyone. 

We all gather around the counter that separates the kitchen from the living area.  Greetings, hugs.  Chips, dips, wine, beer.  Betty’s busy, a hopping bird feeding the open mouths.  And her feet hurt.  They’ve been stepped on too many times by horses.  She smiles through the pain, aware that others have worse to endure.  Conversation flows—there’s a lot of catching-up to do.  It’s been ages since any of us have seen Heidi.  The talk is fast, words stacked on top of one another, and the walls reverberate with teasing and laughter.  The Waldos actually like each other.  They don’t get angry or hold grudges, which is foreign to me.  We Haenisches know how to hold a grudge. 

Having said that, the Waldos are intense and energetic, jolly with big personalities.  As a quiet person who enjoys solitary walks and having conversations in my head, I find all this good cheer exhausting.  I always drink too much at these gatherings. 

For dinner—fajitas.  More wine and more joking.  Heidi tells about her two grandchildren, and there are pictures.  Jim’s daughter is going to Smith—I intend to ask about his son, but the conversation goes elsewhere before I have a chance.  Two new faces around the table—Curtis’s girlfriend, Anna, and my nephew, Phillip’s, girlfriend, Michelle.  I admire the women of my sons’ generation.  They are self-confident and seem to have a system of mutual encouragement that was lacking when I was their age. 

After dinner we gather around Keri and her husband, Greg.  Kedan, their grandson, is sent from the room.  Greg explains the latest options—medications, dosages, treatments, schedules.  His knowledge is profound and poignant.  Keri begins to cry—impatient with her tears, she removes her glasses and presses her fingers against her closed eyelids.  She doesn’t like being the instrument of gravitas.  And she hates her enemy, cancer, with a penetrating and relentless hatred, an emotion stronger than any she’s ever felt.  If it were a live being she would murder it violently and draw primal pleasure from the act. 

Heidi’s arm goes around Keri, then Betty’s.  David moves behind and plants a kiss on her hair.  We’re all people who like to be in control, but there’s no controlling this.  We’re confounded, helpless, devastated. 

Keri knows she’s loved.  And she knows people all over the country are praying for her.  And she knows the doctors are working hard to save her.  But as time passes, there is another thing she knows, and that is that no matter how many people support and love her, no one can feel what she feels.  Others can understand her anger, sympathize with her fear, hold her hand as she stands against the pain, but no one can step in and bear these things for her.  Ultimately, this is what she, alone, has been given. 

Oh, Keri. 

David, Keri, and Paul

Curtis and Anna.  That's Heidi's husband, Jim, in the background.  

Curtis playing with Kedan.  Anna's behind Curtis.  That's Greg, Keri's husband, behind Kedan.  

Betty, Keri, and Heidi.  The shades of blue look good on them.  

DPS Disappoints

I receive a letter from the DPS advising me that it’s time to get my license renewed, also telling me that I’m not eligible for the online service.  I figure there’s an eighty percent chance that the people who sent the letter aren’t in communication with the online people who issue the licenses (oh naïve soul), so I decide to try the online renewal anyway.  The website’s easy to navigate, but misleading in that it’s made to seem that buying the thirty-four page handbook entitled Texas License Easy Guide is a requirement.  I pay seventeen dollars and download the stupid book, press CONTINUE, and a message appears on the screen telling me I’m not eligible for online renewal.  My understanding is that, because I renewed online last time, I need to put on shoes and drive all the way over there simply because the jowly woman with the thick glasses wants to see me every eight years. 

Because I’ll be flashing the picture regularly for the next four years, I put some effort into my appearance.  I curl my hair, choose a flattering blouse, and select my earrings with care. 

I’m apprehensive.  Last time I got renewed, I cheated on the eye test.  After Lasik surgery, one of my eyes sees distance and the other sees near, and when the woman behind the counter asked me to close my far-seeing eye and read the letters, I panicked—but luckily she was distracted by her discussion with the woman sitting next to her about what they were going to have for lunch, and I was able to surreptitiously shift my distance-seeing eye to the adjacent lens.  I don’t know if I can get away with it again.  Is it foolish to hope that they’ve updated their system to include those of us who have been improved?

I arrive to find only a half-dozen cars in the lot.  This isn’t going to be bad at all.  People mill around outside the front door.  Why aren’t they going in?  Curious, I join them.  It’s a sloppy group—stringy hair, wrinkled clothes, lazy shoulders.  Did they come here not realizing that their pictures will be taken?  If you’re longing to hang out in a place where vanity doesn’t exist, go to the Texas Department of Public Safety License Renewal Office.

“What’s going on?” I ask the hapless assemblage. 

“It’s closed.”  A dumpy thirty-something points at a notice taped to the door.

“Why?”

“They don’t say.  There’s just this sign.”

Skeptical, I step forth and read.  Yep.  Closed today, reopening next week.  If driver’s licenses are compulsory, shouldn’t there be someone to issue them?  Don’t the people of the DPS know they’re losing valuable customers? 

This is typical of the way things have been going lately. 

This morning the door fell off the washing machine.  Crash!  It’s ten years old, a discontinued model, no door available.  I’ll have to buy a new machine. 

The roof’s leaking. 

The thermostat in the shower isn’t regulating.   

Already I’ve had to have bodywork done on the car. 

And the refrigerator’s water dispenser makes an awful grinding sound and doesn’t release water.  The appliance repairman says it’s the plumbing and the plumber says it’s the refrigerator.  So I call the appliance guy back and he says he’ll order a part, which is expensive. 

We’re handing out money like it’s got no value. 

Also, when someone rings the doorbell next door, our doorbell rings. 

It seems that there’s not a thing around me that’s working properly.  Except my new MacBook Air, which is pretty sensational.

Oh, and my new washing machine, which is nice—a top-loader this time, so no falling-off door. 

Ne explanation needed.  

Unacceptable.

Do you like the new washer?  

One Way to Get Money

While in Singapore, I forgot about the homeless here in Houston, how they shuffle up and down the medians at every major intersection, hitting up the drivers in the turning lane.  What did life throw at them, that they’ve ended up in the blazing sun with their palms out?  (Also, it becomes heavy-coat cold during the winter months.)  Most are men, but there’re some women.  Most suffer from some form of mental illness, or possibly they’re addicts or alcoholics.  When I worked at a downtown soup kitchen four or five years ago, there was a trend among the street people to hold dead phones to their ears and pretend to talk and listen.  Who does that?  Abnormal people longing to be normal.    

I roll to a stop, turning from Fountain View on to Westheimer.  I’m six from the front.  The red-faced man peers up the line, assessing the newcomers.  His white hair is thin, shoulder-length, and scraggly.  Looks sixty, probably forty-five.  At first he doesn’t move, but slowly he takes one step, then another.  Plucking a five from the pocket in the console, I wonder if he’ll make it to my window before the light turns green. 

“You’re going to have to make more of an effort than that,” I say.  

He meanders between cars, crossing lanes and backtracking.  Nope, doesn’t make it.  The five goes back into its little hole. 

The man at Chimney Rock recognizes me.  His sign reads:  HOMELESS VET.  PLEASE HELP.  I gave him money yesterday.  I’m not in the turning lane, so he limps between cars, waving, a smile on his face.  Because I gave him five yesterday, today he gets only two.  I ought not to have to buy him lunch every day just because he’s set up his station on my regular route.

Other signs they carry:

NO MONEY.  NO HOME.  NO HOPE.

CANCER.  CAN’T WORK

NEED MONEY FOR FOOD

SICK DAUGHTER

The pleas are barely legible, ink on pieces of rough-edged cardboard. 

I come to a stop later, homebound now, at Westheimer and Chimney Rock.  The guy I gave money to earlier is still working the opposite side of the intersection.  Another guy’s on this side.  His sign says:

CAN’T GET WORK

This guy’s between thirty-five and forty.  He stops at my window.  He’s missing several teeth, has an uncontrollable eye, and looks like he hasn’t bathed in weeks.  In Houston these days there’s a job for every person who wants one, and this man’s sign implies a belief that he could hold one if he could just get it.  His hand shakes as he accepts the five through the crack in the window.

 “You’re an angel sent by God,” he tells me.  “Hey, you want some T-shirts?  I got, like, seven or eight shirts in that bag over there.”  He points toward the center island, where his few possessions make a pile. 

“What?  No, I’m thinking not.”

“Some guy just came and handed them to me, like I’m the Goodwill.  I don’t want his old shirts."

“People do crazy things.”   

I’m irritated at the guy who gave this homeless man old shirts.  Does he tell himself he’s being generous?  Unloading worn out stuff on someone who doesn’t want it or have a place to put it seems lazy and thoughtless.

The light turns green and I continue on my way, humming along with the song on the radio.  It’s not often that someone tells me I’ve been sent by God. 

This guy hid his face because he's "done stuff" and is "hiding from people."  If indeed he's "done stuff" I imagine people are hiding from him.  

There's a person asleep in there.  This mound of possessions represents the belongings of all the people who are working the corner, not just the one who is sleeping.  Whose shadow is that?  

I've seen several of these white bicycles with flowers propped around town.  Does anybody know why?  

Stepford, Texas

Someday David will decide it’s time to retire.  The thought is disconcerting.  What will he do when he no longer has a place to go every day?  We’ve heard that many people retire to the area north of Austin, and because David has a couple of days off, we decide to visit the area and see if, in the future, this will be a nice place for us to settle.

The notion makes me feel rebellious.  I have a house full of unpacked boxes.  There’s work to be done.  Also, it makes no sense to move to some random unfamiliar town just because we’re approaching a certain age.  The three towns we visit—New Braunfels, Georgetown, and Marble Falls—are becoming rich off the baby boomers who are flocking to the area, buying homes and boats, golf carts and RVs. 

David is especially interested in a place called Sun City, a Del Webb retirement community outside Georgetown.  He’s overly enthusiastic, in love with the place before we’ve even seen it.  I’ve visited the website and it looks sterile and colorless.  I’m scared to death he’s going to like it. 

The woman who gives us a tour of Sun City is very sweet, a young mother with a soft voice.  It’s her job to sell us a new home; this can’t be easy, as the model homes are awful—closed-off kitchens, tight hallways, low ceilings.  The facilities outside the home are the selling points.  Two fully outfitted gyms that offer classes as well as equipment, several swimming pools, tennis courts, walking trails, three golf courses.  Painting, pottery, wood-working, and fabric studios.  Allotments for gardening, a softball diamond, even a dog park.  There’s a drama club that puts on three productions a year.  And common-interest clubs, like biking, reading, hunting; there’s even a club for people who like to remote-fly airplanes.  If you like to do it there’s a club for it.  There’s probably even a club for people who enjoy clubs. 

“Do you like living here?” I ask a woman in the art studio.  A couple of people sit at easels, serene as they paint—and they paint well. 

“I love it,” she says.  “It’s safe.” 

Yes, it’s safe.  Gray people poke along in golf carts at five miles an hour.  Every stair has a rail and an accompanying ramp.  And a burglar or rapist would never venture here—anyone young enough to burgle or rape would draw notice.  

We enter the fabric workshop, a paradise if you like to sew, which I do.  Machines are set up, ready, waiting for someone to stitch a seam or two.  There’s a quilting table with an in-built Bernina that looks even more advanced than mine.  Several women hover over tables on the other side of the large room.  When they see me enter, they swoop, excited to see a different face, desperate for new blood.  They tell me everything I want to know without my having to voice one question. 

“This is a wonderful place to live.  Do you sew?  We have knitting and hooking, even fabric art.  We take field trips to quilt shows.  And if sewing isn’t your thing, there’s plenty else to do.” 

“My husband calls us old hens,” one says, happy that her husband likes to tease.  “Mostly what we do here is gab, gab, gab.” 

Their ages range from mid-sixties to really old. 

Living here would be easy.  The most difficult decision David and I would ever have to make would be what to have for dinner.  Making friends would simply be a matter of stepping outside the door—literally, as the houses are only separated by a few feet.  It seems self-indulgent, though, to move to a place where all you do is have a good time.  And isn’t it odd to remove yourself from society simply because you’re older than you used to be?  Although I imagine the younger people of Houston would be thrilled to get the seniors off the roads.  No matter how they couch it, this is a place where people come to wait to die.  But shouldn’t they be doing something useful while they wait?  Something besides playing games, filling the hours with hobbies, and talking, talking, talking? 

We leave the area on Saturday morning.  Tomorrow David will begin a lecture tour of Canada and the northeastern US.  Ostensibly, he’ll be speaking to engineers and geologists about the geologic features that indicate the presence of shale gas.  In other words, fracking.  This is, apparently, a controversial topic in Nova Scotia and I fear there will be heckling.  Good luck, David!

If you're in Marble Falls you've got to eat at the Bluebonnet Cafe--delicious food and small town atmosphere.  

We looked at a home on this golf course in Horseshoe Bay, outside of Marble Falls.  

There's a charming square around the courthouse in Georgetown.

David waits for me at the Monument Cafe in Georgetown.  

You thought I made it up, but I didn't.  We really visited this place