GAIL WATERFIELD’S LETTER (titled "Journey Home" below) appeared on my desk this week unanticipated. It is a contemplation of home and of aging—and how our definitions of both inevitably change.

I had just spent the weekend judging contest entries for the Wisconsin Newspaper Association. Among the submissions was a column that struck every raw nerve in me. This columnist wrote about the neighborhood bar, where her friends often used to meet to share a cold beer and swap a few stories. She called it her third place. The place that is not home, not work. The place where you find connection, and community and conversation—the things we once barely noticed, but now in this time of distancing, regard with great wonder and sadness.

The writer was mourning the loss of that place, and the isolation and disconnect caused by the coronavirus. And so, of course, have I—though I have no neighborhood bar to frequent, and no real idea what my “third place” might be.

It could be any place, I suppose. Over the back fence. Outside the post office. At the coffee shop. In church A stop at a friend’s house to inspect her garden. Sitting on my back patio with another friend, watching the birds at the feeders.

It could be any place where conversation is renewed, friendship fed, kindness given, communion shared, the weather cussed, the football game relived, our confidence in who we are together, restored. That third place, where the doors open and the world steps in and makes your acquaintance again.

The coronavirus has robbed us of so much: our sense of security and well-being, of companionship and comfort, and of so many lives that have been needlessly, tragically lost. But the void I confront almost daily—the most tangible, immediate one—is our connection with each other.

I am a mask-wearer. A precaution-taker. I have willingly relinquished my by-godgiven right to go where I wish and to do as I please, with no regard for whose boundaries I cross, whose toes I step on, whose air I contaminate, and whose life I endanger.

Truth be told, I’d make any sacrifice necessary, just to ensure two things: First, that I have never, and will never, harm another by indulging my own wish not to be uncomfortable or inconvenienced. Second, that we might reach the other side of this chasm with some immutable, indelible, unshakable awareness of what a small, fragile world this is, and how essential it is that we find some way to preserve and protect it, and each other. Doesn’t seem like much, does it?

Gail moved into the Edward Abraham Memorial Home just a few months before COVID became a word we knew how to say, before a quarantine was ordered, the doors were locked, and her friends and family were limited to contactless visits through a plate glass window.

Gail and her fellow residents know a bit about isolation, and loss of connectivity. She just wants to go home—and in this case, she means her new home, Mesa View Senior Living, which has been under construction for the last year, and is nearing completion.

I was fortunate enough, recently, to tour this new home and to shoot a few photos for the newspaper. Gail’s letter reminded me to tell her what it felt like when I was walking through Mesa View. Construction dust still covered the floors. I heard the sound of drills and hammers, and of equipment being moved down the hallway. The chairs and tables in the large community center were pushed up against one wall. But already, it felt like a home.

There were kitchens and dining areas in each residential building—where meals will be prepared and shared, served on colorful Fiesta Ware, at dining tables with cloth runners and centerpieces. Like home.

Fireplaces and covered outdoor patios and well-stuffed armchairs beckon—all clearly intended to elicit lively conversations and competitive card games, to warm the room and lighten the heart.

The walls are not institutional beige and gray. They are painted in richly hued greens and golds—and yes, even deep cobalt blue and gray, in a distinct nod to Cowboys fans. Even the aging eye cannot miss the bright splashes of colors, the art on every wall, books in the bookcase. Sunlight streams through windows. Like home.

Next week, residents of the old Edward Abraham Memorial Nursing Home will make Mesa View their new home. A midweek move-in date is tentatively planned. Home for the holidays.

Gail just wants that one place. Not a second, or a third. She just wants a home that isn’t worn out “like her.” This will be her last home, she says, “And I’m going to make it good.”

No better Christmas wish than that.

Journey Home

I WAS SITTING IN MY LIVING ROOM watching my daughter pack me for what was to come. She had my large suitcase and was putting stuff in. I knew I was going, but I remained mostly silent, unless asked a relevant question.

I had figured out we were going to spend the night, it was a three-hour drive, each way. Big suitcase was her choice, not mine. My son was working on the little stuff. Toothbrush, comb, etc. I was asked what I wanted, and I said, “I don’t care.”

I guess I suspected what was coming. But, I liked not knowing.

I knew. I knew. The time had come.

We finally loaded up for the drive, and I saw my last real home for the last time. All my things were left behind. Clothes, kitchen stuff, furniture, art possessions, everything.

But, you know, I have found none of that really matters.

Our destination finally came, and I was in my former primary doctor’s office with my children. I passed the consultation, and I knew I was approved for my new “home.”
It was not finished yet, but soon. Few weeks at the most. Here I am months later in the old nursing home, but the new home will be ready shortly they tell me.

The old place is not in good shape; but, neither am I. Over the last 50 plus years, they have tried to fix it, but it just has worn out. The new place is great; I’ve seen pictures. No expense was spared.

All that part of the next move will be nice. It’s just the move. After a while, you just get tired of stuff. Primarily change.

The staff here is very good, they take good care of me. I am given my meds and taken for my walk every day. It’s like having a private nurse, except it’s many, not one.

And they have become like family.

When I first came here, I’ve been told I was fairly ill. I sort of remember but not totally. Whatever, I’m fine now. Or as fine as I’ll ever be. In a wheelchair or on my walk with my walker, I make it.

Do I wish things were as they used to be? Of course. But they never will be, and that is only time passing.

Wish me luck on the move when it comes. It will be my last, and I’m going to make it good.

GAIL WATERFIELD
Current resident of the Abraham Home
and future resident of Mesa View Senior Living