We have great neighbors on my block, the P.’s on one side of our house and Bernice on the other. (We have a field in back and a park across the street. So no neighbors in front or back.) I have to say the one who wins the ’most neighborly’ award is Bernice, hands down. Or maybe that’s the ‘in your face’ award. She was very with-it four years ago when we moved here, and I really thought it was a pretty special arrangement having her next door. She could hold a conversation and was polite, loved our kids, and was fairly enjoyable to be around. She referred to herself as ‘Grandma Bernice’ to every kid she met. In the past two years she has slipped a great deal. She constantly repeats herself, remembers very little of what she’s heard or read, and has short term memory comparable to Dory from Finding Nemo. She is still able to drive her cherry-red car around town (which I find frightening) and comes and goes more than I do, mostly to funerals or volunteering gigs. She is very agile and can scale my front steps as well as someone half her age. When the summer music festival comes to town she goes with her old lady friends from church. I cannot even imagine! When Passion of the Christ came to a local theater, off she went. She paints her own toe-nails (RED!) and does all her own shopping. She reads, but her memory makes it difficult. (I sometimes think if she could do something with her hands she’d be more content. She doesn’t knit or crochet.) I can’t recall her ever being sick since we’ve lived here, and she never complains. She has the faith of a child, does her devotions every morning, blessing before every meal, and goes to church every Sunday. And now she is also the reason I have to scope the front of our houses before heading out to my favorite knitting spot on the porch. Sigh. I have to admit, I’m not always in the mood for Bernice. Not that I ever really am. She’s loud and never wears her hearing aid. It’s a total chore carrying on a conversation with her. I tell DH that she’s like the American Express card, she’s everywhere I want to be. She even walks in our back door screeching, “Hope you don’t mind me comin’ on in, I used to do that with the old neighbors, you know!” Needless to say, I keep my doors locked. I like her, don’t get me wrong, but we’re a nutty family with three kids and you just never know what she might walk into, usually nothing more than three piles of dirty laundry, but who knows? One weekday about three months ago I was playing on my ‘puter in my jammies at about 10am. Bernice tried to walk in, but door was locked so she rang the bell. I knew it was her and I just waited for her to leave. Unexpectedly, she started walking around the yard to peek in our windows. I was sitting right there near the window so what else could I do, I hit the floor, and told kidlet to do same. My youngest says in her sweet voice, “Mommy, why are we on the floor?” It was then I knew I had a problem.
DH and I are always cracking up over B’s new quotables. After the flooding in Mississippi and New Orleans she had a friend that returned to this area after losing a home in Mississippi. She got all emotional talking about it and said, “Oh Kid, isn’t water just terrible?” No, actually, it keeps us all alive.
Yesterday on the porch she took off for home when the mailman came to her door. “I better go see if I need to pay a bill.” Sheesh, if I paid my bills like that maybe DH wouldn’t be making picnic tables.
Whenever we chat she always offers to babysit if I get in a bind. That would be handy, but she’s 87 years old and I’d be worried she’d take a nap, burn the house down, or forget what she was doing and report my child as a ‘found’ child to the police.
She has always said to us that these are the best years of our lives, as if it all will go in the crapper after the kids are grown and gone. Yikes, that’s the part I’m looking forward to! She says, “You’re really living now, kid!” I remind myself of that whenever I break up a fight or clean up vomit at 2am.
She uses her most famous line whenever she sees us outside, forgetting she’s used it thousands of times, “I thought I’d stop to say hello. You live so far away!!!” Then she cackles herself silly.
The total killer is that I’ve told her my life story at least a zillion times (because she keeps asking, not because it’s interesting) yet once a week when we chat she looks at me earnestly and says, “Are you from around here?” I must be a saint. I repeat the story as if it’s the first time and pray it will stick this time.
This past week she came over and saw my ankle brace and asked what happened to me. I explained and the next day we did it all over again. UGH. This last time I told her, she said, “That’s terrible, you just go from one end to the other.” HUH? She said, “Didn’t you have one on your wrist not too long ago?” Geez Louise, she can remember that from a year ago, but not that this is the third time in three days that I’ve told her about my ankle. The woman’s brain is a medical mystery.
I keep thinking her family will see what the hell is going on with her and for her safety, put her in a nursing home. But they know as I do that she would be miserable without her freedom. Her family lives out of town and don’t see her very often so maybe she’s fairly normal with them. I have noticed she has sort of normal days and totally fruity days. Or maybe they’re probably waiting until she’s really bad. I worry that by that time she could injure herself or others. We try to look out for her and be good neighbors. Recently, during a tornado warning we called her so she could go to her basement. We knew she couldn’t hear the warning siren. We’ve even had her over for dinner on several occasions and in a weak moment invited her for our child’s birthday party, complete with extended family. It’s never as bad as I think it’s going to be and I know she enjoys it, she’s lived alone since her DH died about 9 years ago. I guess it’s good we’re here for her, and we really don’t mind, except for the loss of privacy at times.
Living next door to Bernice has made me think about aging, something I’ve never cared to think much about. Where will I be at 87 years old? Will I be knitting and painting my own toenails? If not, is it really living? What if I’m a widow? How would I handle it? What if I can no longer drive? I only hope that I’m lucky enough to have a kind family next door who looks out for me, treats me with respect and takes the time to be a good neighbor, even if it hurts.
