Dora Wood was not the most pleasant woman I ever knew. In fact, Dora could be down right unpleasant. Her preacher once visited her while her younger sister (they was both old as the Territory) was present, and when he complimented the sister more'n he did Dora, she began to pout. Well, this preacher was young and kindly brash, so in his prayer he prayed that Dora would be more thankful for her blessings and be kinder to the younger (old) girl. Whereupon, Dora interrupted the praying and chastised the preacher for praying such.
Not always pleasant, was Dora.
Now, she had had a good bit of bad luck. Her husband up and left her during the Depression with a little girl child to care for. If it hadn't been for a Widows' Home taking her in, she would have had it rough. Never got over that, being abandoned and left with the child and having to live in that Home. You know how it is with some folks, the bitterness of thangs jist sort of stains them like dye does cloth. Cain't never get it out, it goes so deep. That girl grew up and sorta left ever'thang about her former life, including her Mamma. Went off to Washington, D.C. Got a college education and married above her former station in life. That'ud kindly embitter anybody and it did Dora. Jist made a bad thang worse.
Well, anyhow, Dora finally had to go into one of them Nursing Homes and little by little lost her mind. Nobody came to see her but the preacher and me. That girl would send her money on her birthday, which she didn't have any use for (and, to her credit, payed the bills), but she never did come around and I think that jist made Dora go off into the past even faster. Humans survive in lots of ways, and I ain't one to be much critical about the ways and means they manage to do so.
So, one Saturday, I drove over to see Dora in the Home (Come to think of it, pore thang, she'd spent most of her life in Homes of one kind of another besides her own, and if that ain't another reason to have pity on the pore old thang, I don't know what it would take.) Anyhow, I went in and found her dozing in a wheel chair in the hall in front of her room; they'd sorta tied her in the damn thang, so she wouldn't fall out. I gently woke her up and said,
"Dora, what are you doing out here in the hall? Why aren't you in bed?"
"Oh, E.D.," she said, I ast them to put me out here so's I could see the parade."
"Parade? What 'parade'?" says I.
"Oh, the military parade. They's going to be a big military parade. And Papa, and Uncle Job, and a bunch of other people are going to come marching by anytime now."
Now, her Papa had been in the Spanish American War and her Uncle Job had been in France in 1917, but they both was dead and buried in a little cemetery down in Leon. So, I thought it best to get her mind off this nonsense and cheer her up.
"Why don't we go down to the singing? There's a Gospel group from the Free Will Baptist Church down there with a guitar and a piano. You know how them Free Willers can sing."
Well, Dora purely loved singing and Gospel singing was her favorite. I could see by her furrowed brow that she was torn and tempted. I let her worry that thought for a while by keeping my silence.
Finally, she said with a sigh, "I'd purely love to..."
"Okie-dokie, Mizz Wood," I said with relief, "Mr. Smith will be your chaperone." And I began to wheel her down the hall.
"I'd purely love to, E.D.," she repeated, "but then I might miss the parade!"
That's funny!....but makes me think of my mama's older sister who had demensia and then alzheimers her last years. We'd go see her in the nursing home and she'd be dressed and wearing a ball cap (which she had never worn in her life) and have her little suit case beside her on the bed. I'd say, "Aunt Jessie, where're ya goin'" and she'd say, "goin' to get the bus and go see June"....and this was some years after my mama died. It was almost always the same when we'd go see her. You just gotta love 'em. ")
ReplyDeleteI don't know whether to laugh or cry. I was ready to laugh but found myself sad at the end... I hope the bitterness of thangs never stains me like dye does cloth. Powerful Story! Thank you, both!
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