The story catchers

 The residents here in the retirement community actively contribute to our shared life in many ways. Some serve informally, just by being who they are, outgoing people who check up on their neighbors and run errands when needed, or introverts who serve behind the scenes. And others serve the community by participating in one or more of the many committees.

When we first moved here, I was leery of joining a committee. (See the previous blog.) After all, retirement meant simplifying my life, letting go of possessions and busy work. So I took a year to figure out how I could contribute to life here. I looked into the committees (some 30-40 at the time!) and found a few I might enjoy. The photography club (I’m not a gifted photographer—I just want to be) or the library committee were possibilities.

In the meantime, I was getting to know people—conversing over meals in the dining hall, sitting together in the educational lectures, or walking the canyon trail down by the creek. We were renewing old friendships and forming new ones.

One aspect of all this that especially delighted me with were the stories people told—not just former occupations and how many great-grandchildren they had, but past adventures, challenges, heartbreaks, and just plain funny stories. These people were funny, and they were good story-tellers. Since I listen better than I talk, I soon gathered a good collection of resident stories. I thought it would be good if more people heard (or read) these stories. In the meantime I was looking for a good committee to join. I found it surprising there wasn’t a writers group and thought briefly about beginning one. But then another idea popped into my head.

I remembered an activity in a church that had impressed me. Several members of the West Hills Friends Church had joined forces to publish a community journal. It came out every two months, with church members responding to a specific theme. I thought that since this retirement home with its some 400 members was a gold mine of stories, this might be a good way to share and preserve some of those stories.

I talked to people to see if there might be interest in such a publication. There was. It took a year to gather interested people, discuss and plan the characteristics of the journal and our processes for producing it, write up a proposal, present it to the Residents’ Council, then wait for them to approve it. They did. The council declared us an official committee (although we resisted the “committee” label; we call ourselves “The Story Catchers.”).

In the spring of 2018, we published our first issue. Since that time “The Story Catcher: A Community Journal” has come out every three months, with some 14 stories in each issue. Residents respond to specific themes, such as “When did another person do or say something that made a difference in your life?”, “Tell about a time you experienced a sense of wonder,” or “Tell about a situation where you were involved in an issue of peace or social justice.”

As an example, following is a story from the Spring 2019 issue on the theme, “Tell about a time you were rescued from danger.” The author is Hal Thomas, who just happens to be my husband. (It was easy to get his permission to reprint the story!)

Pariah Dog
Hal Thomas, Manor 5^th Floor

When I was 14 years old, a freshman in Shadle Park High School in Spokane, my band and orchestra director asked me if I would be willing to play the French horn with the local German band in the city. I was already playing with the Junior Symphony and thoroughly enjoyed it. So a week later I took the bus into the center of the city.  Rehearsal began at 7:30 p.m. and ended just before 10:00 when the last bus went to the section of town where I lived. It was wintertime and a sleety cold night.  I found the address was just off the section of town we knew as Skid Row that I had visited various times with my father who often preached and helped in a rescue mission to homeless alcoholic men and women.  It was a dangerous section of town.  I felt fear as I got off the bus, realizing I carried a new and valuable instrument at my side and that I had to find the side street address. 

As I stepped down from the bus, a German Shepherd dog walked up to me and took his place at my side.  He was thin and somewhat scruffy, and I wondered where his owner was, or if he had a person.  He then accompanied me as I walked those streets, keeping his place at my side, occasionally looking up at me. Heavily bundled people on the street veered around me, looking at the dog.  As he kept his distance, one equally unkept man pointed at him and asked if he were my dog. I replied that he wasn’t but had joined me.  The dog stayed beside me, facing the man. We arrived at the address, a dark storefront. As I entered, the dog lay down beside the door. 

I finished the practice, with its interminable after-beats and hundred-measure-rests assigned to the French horn in popular German music. It was late, but as I walked through the door, the dog again joined me and accompanied me through the freezing streets.  At the bus stop, he sat beside me as I waited.  The bus came, and I desperately wanted to take him home with me.  I knew I could not take him on the bus. I also knew that we did not have any place to keep him or even the resources to feed him. I considered walking the three or four miles home just to keep him with me, but I knew I could not do it safely in that stormy cold and that I would arrive after midnight. I boarded the bus. The dog remained sitting in the street, watching me.  As the bus pulled away, I watched from the window as he waited, then turned into the shadows. I felt I had betrayed him and tried to stifle my sobs. I had talked to him, but had never touched him. He had acted like a trained guide dog. 

I thought even then about the protection I knew I needed and that he gave me. I never returned to play with that band because of the practices that ended so late, and the danger of that section of town at night.  I knew God had accompanied me. I wondered if maybe the dog was an angel that vanished in those shadows. Maybe he found a place to shelter himself from the storm and some food. I don’t know, but I still thank God for him. 

A bunch of committees

Here in the retirement home, we the people have power. Not ultimate power, mind you, but a healthy degree of self-determination. If I were to draw a leadership model of this place, I would choose a somewhat misshapen Mickey Mouse. Rather than a large head and two smaller ears, this mouse would have a small head and two large ears. The large ears represent, of course, the Board of Trustees and the administrative staff. The smaller head is us. (Maybe I should have chosen Bugs Bunny for my model.)

Being the “head” has implications I don’t want to explore; in fact, it’s here that the metaphor breaks down. At any rate, we have a voice and that voice is heard. (And, no, it doesn’t squeak.)

In other words, we’re organized. The 400 (+/-) residents together make up the Residents’ Association, with elected officers and regular meetings. A Residents’ Council is made of the officers, plus representatives from each neighborhood (such as the 5^th floor where we live). The council considers problems and opportunities the community faces, makes decisions when appropriate, and brings proposals to the Association for a vote. It’s well organized with extensive by-laws and well-thought-out procedures.

Sounds heavy and cumbersome, but it’s actually quite fun. Both Hal and I are on the council this year, he as 5^th floor representative, me as secretary. (For some strange reason, I have a history of inhabiting the secretary role in all kinds of organizations. It’s not my favorite writing genre, but, oh well.) The discussions can be lively, plus we enjoy being in of the ground floor of what’s going on.

Where’s the power in all this? It’s felt in the daily life and activities of the community. And it’s felt in our freedom to interact with the administration and the board. Both the executive director and the community life director sit in on council meetings and give monthly reports to the association. One of our council members serves as representative to the board.

But the nitty-gritty work behind the life of the community happens in the multitude of resident committees, all under the umbrella of the residents’ council.

Committee is not everyone’s favorite word. When I retired, part of my uncluttering process meant leaving behind committees. Coming from a position in a university as well as from an active local congregation, that added up to a lot of committees I let go. Ah! Freedom!

A few years after retirement, we moved here to the retirement community, surrounded by a lot of people we didn’t know. Neither Hal nor I are gregarious types who march up to strangers and say, “Hi! My name is blah blah blah….” We get to know people as we work together on projects.

The first week we moved in, several people approached us with invitations to be on their committee. While we appreciated the friendliness, we still held the committee idea with caution. I was enjoying a new measure of spaciousness and didn’t want to clutter it up with busy-ness. On the other hand, I knew serving on a committee would be a good chance to make new friends.

The hesitant me won. At least for a time. I decided I’d give myself a year before joining any committee. And then I’d only join with something I felt strongly about and might actually love doing.

The options are many and varied, like the different kinds of trees that intermingle branches and roots in an old growth forest. Some of the committees could better be called interest groups, such as the photography club (that refuses to call itself a committee), the studio arts committee, the puzzle committee, or the movie night committee. More than just interest groups, they work on projects and provide service to the greater community (e.g., the hundreds of puzzles are continually renewed and available to all; the studio arts group makes the art room and supplies available and also sponsors art classes with local artists; we all get to watch the movies and enjoy the photography). The education committee sponsors lectures and seminars. The garden committee maintains the large community garden, making available plots for any interested resident. Some committees are service oriented, such as the different groups that facilitate the worship gatherings; the employee scholarship committee that raises funds so that a number of staff members can take university classes and work on degrees; the technology and communications committee that runs the sound systems for large gatherings, maintains the resident web site, and sends the monthly newsletter. I could go on. There’s enough to keep a lot of people busy for a long time. The added benefits are forming friendships and making a contribution to life in this old growth forest.

So, I took a year to explore my options. At the end of the year, I did something strange. I decided not to join any of the ongoing committees. I formed a new committee.

Absurd, no? Didn’t we have enough?

I thought not. But that is another story.

Definition of grove: a committee of trees

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Still two-years-old

One of my pandemic projects was gathering memories and writing a memoir. The exercise proved useful in various ways—helping me see overall patterns, and letting gratitude bubble to the surface in a dark time. I was interested in noting how much of the past I relived as I remembered and wrote. I experienced the emotions I had as a child or young person. And I recognized that I still face the same types of situations and feel the same emotions now as an older adult, although on a different scale.

That’s what remembering literally means—bringing together the scattered members into a whole. It’s Humpty Dumpty with a better ending: all the king’s horses and all the king’s men actually manage to put Humpty together again. I discovered all the past ages, developmental stages, and transitions are alive and well inside this present me.

I’m an excited three-year-old child, standing in the grass on Easter morning, told to go ahead and find the colored eggs and chocolate bunnies that I know are out there. I’m eight years old, terrified by the two bullies who live down the street, who chase me home from school one day, swinging a stick. Today I have moments of panic thinking about a global bully who swings the threatening stick of nuclear power.

I’m that high school freshman, desperate about slow development and what she considers a sub-standard wardrobe; she wants nothing more out of life than to be a cheerleader. Can you believe that even now I get bursts of jealousy over the better dressed older ladies in the retirement home?

I’m the college graduate, soon to be married, afraid but also shining with hope, excited for all that’s coming my way. Even the older me feels that way some mornings.

I’m in my mid-forties, caught up in the stresses of juggling goals, accomplishments, failures, and the need to establish my place in the order of things. Yep, even today I can find myself needing to assert my place and my role.

I’m that woman approaching the age of retirement, juggling faith and doubt, sometimes wondering what the fuss was all about. And once again I’ve become a grandma for the first time, amazed at how such a little mite could inspire feelings of awe and wonder.

It's all me. And in the strange grammar of life, it’s all present tense.

When someone today asks me how old I am, I tell them I’m 76. But I know that’s only a partial truth. Actually, I’m two-years old. I’m eight. I’m 14. I’m 22 and 35. I’ve just celebrated my 40^th birthday. I’m 52 and 67.

That’s how old I am. Glad you asked.

I wonder if maturity means finally being able to bring our whole life back together, to welcome the past into the present, to recognize that all of it, all the ages, are us. That probably requires forgiveness, not only of those who’ve hurt us, but of ourselves, for all the times we behaved in ways that were petty or mean or just plain selfish.

I’m learning to hold all those ages and stages of my life with compassion, taking my cue from how God sees me. While that doesn’t give me the freedom to stomp my two-year-old foot and throw a fit, I can recognize any present foot-stomping tendencies, tell them There, there, settle down, and laugh at myself. It’s all in there. It’s all me.

And now, there’s something I’d like to know about you.

Mainly, how old are you?

Just people

The best part about living in this retirement community is the people. Early on I discovered that there are no old people here. There are just people. People with interesting—often surprising—backgrounds, a wealth of stories, and quirky senses of humor. I’ve adopted the secret task of spying. This mostly takes the form of listening in on conversations. My innocent face and quiet nature facilitate my vocation of espionage. (Some people may argue the innocent face bit.)

I also take every opportunity to talk with people, not as a spy but as a neighbor and potential friend. Opportunities include eating together in the dinning hall (which came to a halt during the pandemic and is only now starting up again), walking the campus trail down by the creek, chugging away together in the exercise room, doing projects in the art room, and serving together on any of the many committees. So many chances to get to know people and form friendships.

Following are a few vignettes of my fellow/sister residents (more to follow in future blogs):

My friend Harriet
tells me that her son
visited her soon after he died.
He came and sat on the edge
of her bed. He spoke no
words, but his presence
comforted. When Harriet reached
up and turned on the light,
no one was there.
But she knew what she knew.
“He was,” she says, “unacquainted
with the limits of death.”

********

Ray won a prize in the First Annual
Friendsview Poetry Writing Contest.
He submitted an old poem,
one he had written years ago, a poem
to his wife. He was a soldier in Vietnam,
missing his bride. The poem rhymed
and every stanza ended with the line,
“I think of you.”
Ray’s wife died several years ago.
He says he still thinks about her
every day.

*******

Bonnie decided to try a new art form
so she downloaded some instructions
from the Web, bought the paper
and acrylics, and began pouring
paint on paper, tipping it,
letting the colors ribbon
and swirl. It turned out nice,
so now she’s giving classes every Friday
afternoon. “I’m not really an artist,”
she says. “Anyone can do this.”
I wonder about that. The results
of the class are now on display.
Something in the sense of movement
stirs me, and I can’t stop admiring.
“This isn’t ART,” Bonnie claims.
“It’s more like a hobby.”
I wonder about that, too.
Who’s to say? It just may be
the real thing after all.
Like Bonnie.

*********

 Alan’s wife died last year. He’s only been here
since January. That’s a lot of adjusting to do.
Every morning he’s down in the exercise room,
walking slowly but consistently on the treadmill,
his way of choosing life. Now in his mid-90s,
his Ph.D. in medical research helps him scan
his neighbors, make wise diagnoses,
which he wisely keeps to himself.
But his life-long research in giardia doesn’t
contribute much to life in this place. It’s too clean here.
I can appreciate his work, though, having wrestled
with the beasts myself. I feel a little safer
knowing there’s an ancient giardia specialist
who lives just over by the creek.

[Note: Bonnie’s painting shown above is mixed media, in the beginning stage and the final product.]