Senior Daze

by Katie Bourg

About Katie: Having arrived in time for the Great (?) Depression, WWII, and all other 20th century problems, I am endowed with long and varied memories. Writing classes have long been my home away from home. Other people's stories are fascinating, and sharing is growth at its best. Hope you seniors will join me with your stories. Try it. You'll like it.

I bought ten geraniums the other day. Five white and five red. I found a new tool to clean the flower beds, too. I got them home just in time for the wrong message on TV. So they are sitting under the shelter over my little patio that son-in-law Roger built for me. I can see them from my sliding door, looking reproachful because they do not yet feel the soil between their toes. I keep telling them, "Tell the weatherman!"

Thursday I thought I'd get home in time to plant them in the ground. It was getting cold and wet when I arrived. Grandson Alex was going to clean the flower bed. That also is on hold. Two little blue primroses ignored the weather, and are blooming as they please. The rest didn't come back. But the daffodils are showing color, and won't be stopped. And the tulips are ready for battle. Looks like I'll have some color in front soon.

Meantime I have been spending considerable time reading the papers. I got a two-month subscription to the Seattle Times when I went to see the Nutcracker last December. I don't want it, but it continues to come. I forget to stop it, so I'm reading two morning papers, and I have seen some strange and wonderful stories.

It seems that Butte, Montana, has lost its last madam. She was 94 years old. As a girl I read a lot of wild western stories, so I realize the character of the community has altered. Madams, once considered essential in the early West, were as important as a man's horse. Ask any kid who attended the Saturday matinees--madams ran houses of ill repute.

But a miner just back from his digs knew their value. Not just pretty girls--a place to catch up on the politics of the day, find a clean bed or a bath. They were rugged fellows, those early miners. So were the madams, who were sometimes the only place to find funds for local needs. And many a local politician was known to appreciate their contribution, whatever it was. But their day has come and gone in Butte. Nothing left but memory and imagination.

My imagination took a flying leap due to another story in the paper. It seems some honey buckets are in the news because their position makes them hard to clean. So they are being picked up by helicopter and flown to a safer place for sanitation purposes. A big full-color picture in the paper conjured up all sorts of "what ifs."

Say you feel like taking a hike. You've climbed for hours and nature is calling. Maybe you aren't as young as you used to be and muscles don't have the same tension they once had. You spot a honey bucket and feel relief. But just as you adjust to the situation there is a loud roar overhead, and the little house is pulled from the ground. Alone in the dark, you feel yourself flying through the air. You don't know where you are going. You don't know about landing. What's worse, you don't know if there will be a splash. All you can do is sit and hope for the best, or at least not the worst.

I don't think I'll be going hiking. Just stay here and wait for the daffodills.

My imagination isn't helping my diet, either. My favorite columnist is visiting and writing from New Orleans. (I've never been anywhere, including New Orleans, that didn't manage to affect my appetite.) He mentioned my in-laws' family favorite, CRAWFISH! My mouth started watering immediately. My mind recalled my sister-in-law's gumbo. Dirty rice. Etoufe. I just ate, but am hungry all over.

My extra change will soon be in the hands of my TOPS club treasurer. I'm longing for a small stuffed crab.

My daughter has been dropping hints. I've got six nursing scrubs cut out, waiting for me to get back to the sewing machine. And my friend Jeannine brought me some more eggs to paint.

Maybe I better quit reading the paper and get back to work.