Got a call from CL on Thursday morning. The prospective buyers had been for another visit and, as the manager, she'd been talking with them. She said that they want to go door to door again, this time to measure the inside of every room.
She wanted to know if I thought they had the right to do that. I had to say that, if the purchasers have the permission of the current owners, I didn't think the residents had the right to refuse them. She asked if they didn't have some protection under the Landlord/Tenant Act. I said no, they don't. I reminded her that was why our friend had been going through that whole thing. But that the purchasers seem to be decent people and if she talks to them, they'd probably be willing to skip a few rooms for now if it's going to freak people out. They were there when our frightened friend had his panic attack, after all.
But she's very worried about having to find a new place to live with her animals.
Dinner this week was interesting.
No, scratch that. It was striking. Unsettling. Strange. Never "interesting".
I've got nothing against the word, per se. But it requires the perspective of distance. A clinical detachment that observes without involvement, that ought not to be applied to people.
Several years ago, when my son was in elementary school and we were struggling to find ways to help his autism fit with the system, a psychologist stood in the hall outside the principal's office, folded her arms, cocked her head and told me "He's a very interesting young man."
I said, "He's not 'interesting'. He's my son."
So now I correct myself. Dinner wasn't interesting. It was very good and very bad.
Some difficult things happened this week.
One of our regulars at Dinner learned this week that her family had lost a 17 year old boy in a snowmobiling accident. Pray for them.
The other difficult thing was that Tidy G. lost his partner. I don't know all the details, but he passed away in the hospital early this week. We feel badly for G. He's such a gentle man, peaceable and kind spirited. A veteran. He was adopted as a kid into a pretty conservative Baptist family, but gained a reputation for being "trouble". I guess you define that word for yourself.
So this elderly man has to go down that road now. He's hoping to be able to attend the funeral, but doesn't know whether R.'s family will have one. Or where. Some people's lives and loves are so un-simple.
R. never came to Dinner, and I'm not even sure whether I ever met him. I think so, once in the summer before we started Dinners. We were going to have a movie night to try to meet some people. We'd bought Madagascar and Spiderman. First a kids' movie, then one for the grown-ups. We borrowed a projector, a ghetto blaster and a DVD player and set it all up in front of the big screen that hangs in the 'church'.
There were more kids around back then, so Z. and B. had bought what we'd need to make Rice Krispie squares with the kids that came, using the microwave. We had popcorn and cold drinks (it was early July and really really hot) and chairs set up all ready to go.
I had a handful of leaflets with the info on them and, in fear and trembling, walked out earlier that afternoon on my own to give them to whomever I could find.
I remember seeing two older men, one clean shaven, the other bearded, standing outside the section of rooms where G. and R. live. I said hi. The bearded man said hi. I held out a paper and said, "We're having a movie night tonight in the church." He took it from me and grinned and said, "Oh, we are, are we?" I told him I hoped he'd come and he didn't reply. Just grinned and turned away.
And that was it.
So we started our movie night at about 6, I think. Around half a dozen kids came to see what was going on. Some who lived there and a few who were on visitation with their grandpa. They mostly ignored the movie and had a great time making the squares. Blobs, actually. It was so hot in the room, the stupid things stayed liquid. Messy, fun.
Once the squares were gone, most of the kids left. One girl, about 10 years old, stayed to watch the movie alone, and then stuck around for the start of Spiderman. She watched it for about half an hour and then thanked us and said she thought she'd go home now.
Which left just me and B. and Z.
None of us particularly wanted to watch Spiderman, and we turned off the projector. By this time it looked a bit dark outside those doors, and it was obvious that no adults were coming. So we packed up everything and loaded our cars.
I sat in my driver's seat, the back seat full of equipment that I'd have to return, and thought, "Well, we tried."
Started the engine, pulled out of my spot and turned toward the driveway that would take me off the property.
As I reached the corner of the main house, I turned my head just a little and looked across the lawn to where the rooms are.
The sun had gone down and the tall old trees' shadows had blended into the twilight. The air was cooling just a bit and the grass was soft and green.
And there were people. About 50 of them. All sitting out, in small groups here and there on the lawn, or outside their doors. Chatting, laughing, complaining, having a beer or a pop, sharing smokes, enjoying the cool of evening, hollering at the kids riding bikes and kicking balls and chasing cats.
As I passed, their heads turned and they watched me drive by and away.
And I thought, crap. That's where we should have been.
We thought that if we put on a show, they'd come. And all the time, they'd been sitting there in the shade, in their homes saving us a seat and ready to offer us a drink if only we'd walked over to where they were.
We were in the wrong place.
I've never forgotten the feeling of going from working in our empty room full of event, to driving past life that had been happening behind our backs.
What a lesson.
I wish I'd known. I wish I'd known to put my leaflets in my pocket and invite myself to sit down on one of the white plastic chairs outside R. and G.'s room and start talking about the weather. Ask them their names and their cats' names and tell them mine. To say sure, thanks when they offered me the beer that I know now they would have been honour-bound to offer. To start living alongside.
But I don't beat myself up about it. Because I didn't know. Couldn't.
It was a lesson I had to learn.
And I have.
r
She wanted to know if I thought they had the right to do that. I had to say that, if the purchasers have the permission of the current owners, I didn't think the residents had the right to refuse them. She asked if they didn't have some protection under the Landlord/Tenant Act. I said no, they don't. I reminded her that was why our friend had been going through that whole thing. But that the purchasers seem to be decent people and if she talks to them, they'd probably be willing to skip a few rooms for now if it's going to freak people out. They were there when our frightened friend had his panic attack, after all.
But she's very worried about having to find a new place to live with her animals.
Dinner this week was interesting.
No, scratch that. It was striking. Unsettling. Strange. Never "interesting".
I've got nothing against the word, per se. But it requires the perspective of distance. A clinical detachment that observes without involvement, that ought not to be applied to people.
Several years ago, when my son was in elementary school and we were struggling to find ways to help his autism fit with the system, a psychologist stood in the hall outside the principal's office, folded her arms, cocked her head and told me "He's a very interesting young man."
I said, "He's not 'interesting'. He's my son."
So now I correct myself. Dinner wasn't interesting. It was very good and very bad.
Some difficult things happened this week.
One of our regulars at Dinner learned this week that her family had lost a 17 year old boy in a snowmobiling accident. Pray for them.
The other difficult thing was that Tidy G. lost his partner. I don't know all the details, but he passed away in the hospital early this week. We feel badly for G. He's such a gentle man, peaceable and kind spirited. A veteran. He was adopted as a kid into a pretty conservative Baptist family, but gained a reputation for being "trouble". I guess you define that word for yourself.
So this elderly man has to go down that road now. He's hoping to be able to attend the funeral, but doesn't know whether R.'s family will have one. Or where. Some people's lives and loves are so un-simple.
R. never came to Dinner, and I'm not even sure whether I ever met him. I think so, once in the summer before we started Dinners. We were going to have a movie night to try to meet some people. We'd bought Madagascar and Spiderman. First a kids' movie, then one for the grown-ups. We borrowed a projector, a ghetto blaster and a DVD player and set it all up in front of the big screen that hangs in the 'church'.
There were more kids around back then, so Z. and B. had bought what we'd need to make Rice Krispie squares with the kids that came, using the microwave. We had popcorn and cold drinks (it was early July and really really hot) and chairs set up all ready to go.
I had a handful of leaflets with the info on them and, in fear and trembling, walked out earlier that afternoon on my own to give them to whomever I could find.
I remember seeing two older men, one clean shaven, the other bearded, standing outside the section of rooms where G. and R. live. I said hi. The bearded man said hi. I held out a paper and said, "We're having a movie night tonight in the church." He took it from me and grinned and said, "Oh, we are, are we?" I told him I hoped he'd come and he didn't reply. Just grinned and turned away.
And that was it.
So we started our movie night at about 6, I think. Around half a dozen kids came to see what was going on. Some who lived there and a few who were on visitation with their grandpa. They mostly ignored the movie and had a great time making the squares. Blobs, actually. It was so hot in the room, the stupid things stayed liquid. Messy, fun.
Once the squares were gone, most of the kids left. One girl, about 10 years old, stayed to watch the movie alone, and then stuck around for the start of Spiderman. She watched it for about half an hour and then thanked us and said she thought she'd go home now.
Which left just me and B. and Z.
None of us particularly wanted to watch Spiderman, and we turned off the projector. By this time it looked a bit dark outside those doors, and it was obvious that no adults were coming. So we packed up everything and loaded our cars.
I sat in my driver's seat, the back seat full of equipment that I'd have to return, and thought, "Well, we tried."
Started the engine, pulled out of my spot and turned toward the driveway that would take me off the property.
As I reached the corner of the main house, I turned my head just a little and looked across the lawn to where the rooms are.
The sun had gone down and the tall old trees' shadows had blended into the twilight. The air was cooling just a bit and the grass was soft and green.
And there were people. About 50 of them. All sitting out, in small groups here and there on the lawn, or outside their doors. Chatting, laughing, complaining, having a beer or a pop, sharing smokes, enjoying the cool of evening, hollering at the kids riding bikes and kicking balls and chasing cats.
As I passed, their heads turned and they watched me drive by and away.
And I thought, crap. That's where we should have been.
We thought that if we put on a show, they'd come. And all the time, they'd been sitting there in the shade, in their homes saving us a seat and ready to offer us a drink if only we'd walked over to where they were.
We were in the wrong place.
I've never forgotten the feeling of going from working in our empty room full of event, to driving past life that had been happening behind our backs.
What a lesson.
I wish I'd known. I wish I'd known to put my leaflets in my pocket and invite myself to sit down on one of the white plastic chairs outside R. and G.'s room and start talking about the weather. Ask them their names and their cats' names and tell them mine. To say sure, thanks when they offered me the beer that I know now they would have been honour-bound to offer. To start living alongside.
But I don't beat myself up about it. Because I didn't know. Couldn't.
It was a lesson I had to learn.
And I have.
r
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