The Lost Art of Finding Happiness

I wasn't done with Wallace Stevens, and I'll get back to him, but right now I am sitting in a coffee place in Orange County, and I'm using this blog to get myself centered. (The act of writing seems to help.) Those of you who know me, either in real life or through the blog, are aware that when I come down here it's primarily to look in on my elderly mother, so it's not what I would categorize as fun, but I step out of my element and deal with it because it's the right thing to do, whether I like it or not.

Sometimes it has its rewards. My mother may be wacky, and the past we share is a painful one, but I feel very welcome and appreciated when I show up at her room. She knows who I am, introduces me to everyone (again and again), and is incredibly grateful just to go for a drive and an ice cream. Lately she has even been wearing her hearing aid and claiming that her hearing has been miraculously restored, which I suppose is true.That was the good news.

The bad news is that she lost her lower dentures. Again. (How do you lose your teeth? That's what I want to know.)

Her roommate, Ann, said they have looked in all the socks. (The socks?)

"We looked everywhere," Ann explains. "She thought she stuck them in her pocket, but she was wearing her green pants, and they don't have a pocket. We looked in her socks, where she sometimes sticks things. We looked in the drawers. They were wrapped in tissue; they might have been thrown away. She was afraid to tell you."

Well, she didn't need to tell me. It isn't that hard to notice. But maybe she vaguely remembers that we just replaced them a few months ago and shouldn't have to go through this again. The part she doesn't realize is that it cost $800 to do so, and that was her emergency cushion money.I promptly called the dentist and asked if she could have them replicated at a discount price. No dice.

"It's okay," says my mother. "I have pretty hard gums."

"She can eat mashed potatoes," says Ann. "She's not gonna starve. The food's lousy here anyway."

Meanwhile, my mother is fretting because she had a plastic box of pens and pencils that seems to have disappeared. She is convinced that someone stole them until I open the drawer of her nightstand and, lo and behold, there they are. She's delighted.

This in turn gives me hope that the dentures may yet turn up.

"Oh, yes," says my mother. "I lost them right here in this room. Not outside. They're in here somewhere."

So we'll give that little issue a bit more time.

We're headed out for ice cream, no teeth necessary. On the way out, we notice that the door to Emma's room is open, and we pause to say hello. Doris, one of the other residents, is visiting, sitting on the bed. She is sick, and clearly depressed, as evidenced by a doleful, dyspeptic expression and the omission of her usual wig, and Emma, who looks about 70 but is 93 years old, is trying to make cheery conversation from an adjacent rocking chair. I've heard that Emma used to write poetry, and I ask her about this. She immediately recites from memory a poem about the hands of the clock and our numbered days. It's quite good.

"You're like a genius," declares Doris, brightening a bit. "Such intelligence. Who was your father? You got that brainy DNA from someone."

Encouraged by our appreciative response, Emma grabs onto her cane, hoists herself up, and goes over to the dresser, where she pulls out a stack of typed pages and a small photo album. Her most famous poem was written in 1969, and it's about the astronauts landing on the moon. I read it out loud.

"I sent that poem to the President," Emma tells us proudly, "and he sent me a certificate. And I sent it to all three astronauts, too, and each one of them wrote back. That poem made the rounds."

It's interesting how some people draw in others and become a kind of hearth. Emma is one of those. She lights up the place, even at 93. For a moment I almost feel like I'm back in college sitting with a couple of girlfriends in a dorm room.

It turns out Emma was a dancer in her youth, and the album I am holding is filled with pictures of her in her various dancing costumes, from a leggy pose with top hat and cane, to a Carmen Miranda type of get-up complete with fruit on her head. My mother is fascinated.

"You were in a chorus line?" she asks, impressed.

"Yes I was," says Emma. "I did all of that and strip dancing too."

"You were a stripper?" says Doris, with a mixture of awe and disapproval, mostly awe.

"I was," says Emma. "Oh, I loved to dance! And I loved to write poems. But I've had a couple of strokes and can't do either one now. I don't know why God has seen fit to keep me around this long. I don't know why I'm still here."

"Because you make us happy," Doris responds, and I have to agree that she does.

Now it's time for ice cream.