TO TAKE MY mind off Ted Cruz being with us for another six years, I’ve found that repeatedly jabbing a needle into my knee seems to work best. But today I’m thinking of the more comforting world of assisted living, specifically the current residence of my elderly parents. Although I have to be careful using that word “elderly,” since I am, ahem, of a certain age myself. And I have my own burden to bear. (Recently, several people remarked that I look like Clint Eastwood, that handsome paragon of Hollywood masculinity. But they weren’t talking about Clint Eastwood in his prime, but rather the current Clint Eastwood, who’s 88. That hurts.)
My parents reside at a Baptist senior center near Florence, S.C., a town not named after a recent hurricane that bulldozed its way through the South. There wasn’t much left, anyway, after Hurricane Matthew came through earlier. (And then there was Michael, another “100-year storm,” a phrase that apparently now means “monthly.”)
Visiting my parents is always a joy, as well as a jolt. The jolt comes when driving from North Carolina into South Carolina, where the road immediately becomes cracked and rough, registering the difference between a state that responsibly maintains its highways and one that instead puts its money into maintaining the 41st-best health care in the nation, not to mention the 48th-best education. (High fives for Mississippi, which is way up at 46th!) In fairness, South Carolina ranks 12th in gun ownership, so you probably don’t want to complain about the roads.
The joy, on the other hand, is in visiting parents who, well into their 90s, still have alert minds and quick wits, a condition I credit to the fact they finally stopped watching Fox News. (Given time, the human brain can eventually flush out the worst of poisons.) Now, they mainly watch old movies, such as westerns featuring a young Clint Eastwood.
Me: “Hey, Dad, people tell me I look like him. What do you think?”
Dad: “Son, you don’t look anything like that horse.”
He’s 94, and funnier than me. That hurts.
THEY LOVE their new home, and what’s not to love? It’s got a coffee lounge, laundry service, fried chicken on Thursdays, and church on Sundays. Not to mention ample heat and air conditioning designed to keep them warm in the winter and “cool” in the summer, which can be quite a shock for visitors. (You don’t know what cold is until you visit a senior center in the summer. You were warned to bring a sweater.)
And who says they can’t set the thermostat how they want? They’ve earned it. They took what the world aimed at them and ducked. And now they’re enjoying the fruits of their longevity, which seems even longer considering the walking pace of most of them. My parents are two of the oldest residents, but they’re among the spryest of them all. Admittedly, when Dad rises from his chair, he starts at kind of an angle. But by about the 10-yard line, he’s straightened up and pushing his walker at top speed.
Heading to the chapel with them, my thoughts turn to gratitude for the medical advancements that got them this far—that, and not smoking—but I start to wonder if bacon is really so bad for you. (It’s a slow walk, so why not think about bacon?) The South is legendary for its fatty foods, and yet here they are. Although maybe it was the Jell-O pudding.
It’s no surprise that Sunday worship at a senior center usually focuses more on heaven than on earth. Some might feel that fire and brimstone is necessary when aiming at those in the midst of an enthusiastically misspent youth, but the elderly have come this far by faith (and cholesterol pills) and don’t need to hear about changing their ways. Changing their hearing-aid batteries, maybe. And except for the occasional wheelchair fender-bender in the hallway (too many wheelchairs to pinpoint the guilty), it’s hard for them to fall short of the glory of God, especially while napping.
SITTING IN A room listening to my parents’ reminiscences—all of which I’ve heard before—is still a sublimely pleasant experience. Much better than the other times the three of us sat together in parent-teacher conferences waiting as the anxiety sweat accumulated on my forehead. And then the inevitable: “He has so much potential” [pause for effect] “but he’s not applying himself.”
Which is why Elizabeth Warren will never be president. When she talks, that’s what she sounds like. And as most Americans will tell you, applying ourselves is just too time- consuming. “Dancing with the Stars” is not going to watch itself.
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