91 and a Prisoner in His Own Home

The feeble old man reached out his thin and quivering hand; black and blue from his tired and ailing circulation system of 91 years. He is confined to a wheelchair now because his right leg was amputated just above the knee following a recent incident with a blood clot. The worn out old-timer has few pleasures anymore. Weak and somber, he has outlived two wives, eight brothers and sisters and one of his own children. His body and mind are so tired they belie the man he once was.

Decades earlier, a dozen talented men worked for the old timer and they were happy to do so because he treated them with respect. He was their leader, their provider, their friend. After work his crew and their families gathered at the boss’s home to wash down a few beers. Occasionally they would fetch pizzas from their favorite neighborhood eatery, but more often than not, the old man’s wife cooked Italian food or burritos for them all. They talked and laughed away many fun-filled evenings. The following morning the men would return to begin another day’s work and the pattern would be repeated. This went on for at least a generation, and so, without even trying the old man and his wife created a lifetime of memories for a parade of grateful followers.

The Colorado Mountains provided many opportunities for the old man, his wife and their friends to enjoy ice-cold streams, natural lakes and man-made reservoirs. On most weekends a caravan of campers and used motor-homes followed the old man and his wife to their favorite fishing holes. The old timer was a skilled fisherman, but rumor has it, the old man’s wife was even better. After a day of Extreme Trout Fishing, the hodgepodge of characters gathered around the campfire for marshmallows, hot dogs and trout that were so fresh they nearly flopped around in the skillet. After dinner, a friendly game of penny-ante poker, near a campfire, provided the entertainment. Naturally, the old man and his wife provided a few beers to anybody who wanted them.

Even as the passing years stole pieces of the old timer’s youth, he could still pitch horseshoes like the city champ he once was. Nobody could beat him, except the kids for some strange reason. Occasionally, the old man or his friends would rent a boat or ride motor bikes, but mostly their greatest pleasures came from collecting friends like a powerful spring storm accumulates rain drops.

We all know that all good things come to an end and so it is with the “good ol’ days” of the old-timer and his wife. Now those wonderful decades are nothing more than a faded memory in the idle mind of one old man. He is the last one standing, or should I say sitting – in his cold, leathery wheel chair.

A long time ago the old man and his friends enclosed a long porch, with a tall ceiling, that was attached to the old man’s home. They had no idea that simple project would provide the receptacle for the December of the old-timer’s life. Now, he resides, if you want to call it that, backed into a corner of the elongated room.

A sturdy, custom-made wheel-chair ramp has been constructed in the middle of the room to provide access to the remainder of his old brick home. But, the narrow room and the landing at the top of the ramp are too small for the ill-fitted contraption, so it is clumsy and painfully ineffective. To compound matters, the old man lacks sufficient strength to negotiate the pitch of the ramp or the impossible left-turn into the kitchen that is necessary at the top of the climb. So, in an ironic twist, both he and his chair are held hostage by the very ramp that was intended to provide access to a life outside of what has become his personal prison not unlike that of real senior prisoners.

That damn ramp is much like an unfriendly drunk: Obnoxious and in the way. Surly and mean, it seems to take pleasure in tripping the old man’s guests. On several occasions unsuspecting victims have fallen off of its menacing sides and cursed it as new bruises laid claim to various parts of their bodies. Whenever somebody introduces the idea of removing the defiant ramp, the old man rejects the idea as if it might rise from its own grave to haunt those who played a role in its demise. So it stays there, in the way, provoking the sane.

Since he has no real freedom, he depends on others for any mobility. The old one has gathered a brass bell which he rings whenever he needs assistance. He looks upon his phone and his bed-pan as company. He has not taken a shower or a traditional bath in over a year; those being replaced by sponge baths in his hospital-type bed. There is an electric fireplace just a few feet away. He wears layers of mismatched, but warm, clothes and backs up to the fireplace because he is always cold due to his poor circulation, which is yet another deficiency, which he and many seniors cannot escape.

The primary entry door to the enclosed back porch is at the opposite end of the old man’s quarters. There is also a nearly-antique heat-stove that the old man installed when he and his friends enclosed the space. To this day that reliable old cast-iron stove works so well it could chase Satan himself away. The old man has always enjoyed throwing logs in that old wood burner. It had become a sort of entertainment and comfort for him, especially after the death of his wife.

Like so many other innate objects, that old stove has replaced the human friends in the old timer’s life: friends that the old man once gathered like dust on a windowsill…but, the evil ramp has ruined that too. It separates him from his pot-bellied buddy and prevents him from feeding it the firewood it very much craves. In desperation, the old one prods his visitors to stuff it for him as if it will die like a house-plant that is deprived of life-giving water.

But clearer minds realize that it gets so hot in that room it seems unsafe, so they will not always accommodate his wishes. Eventually, somebody always ends up uncomfortable: The old man cannot get warm enough and the visitors are at risk of succumbing to heat stroke. In the end, the old stove has also let him down.

Sometimes family members will assist the old-timer so that he can temporarily visit the rest of his home for a few minutes, but the worthless ramp is nearly as difficult for them to ascend as it is for him. The upstairs, which is the destiny of the climb, is barely worth the trip. The home has not been remodeled, or even painted, for nearly two decades. Old fixtures, knickknacks and mementos fill outdated tables and walls. The curtains are both too dirty and too old. The living room carpeting was tired long before the old man’s wife died, which was nearly eight years ago. The bedroom in which they once slept is lonely, sterile, and dark. The bathroom, once colorful, bright and cheery, has become sadly gaudy.

Each time the old timer takes that short trip he is confronted with sad disappointment. Once upon a time, the upstairs area of his home was filled with the hustle of activities but now it is like an old train station that once escorted the masses to-and-fro, but has become nothing more than a faded ghost of its former purpose. Realizing there is no joy to be had upstairs, the old man hangs his head and resigns himself to the fact he must return to that cold enclosed porch back down the ramp; his cell.

The old-timer does not like the television or radio and his eyesight makes it impossible to read. He just sits there behind the menacing ramp, staring. Nobody knows what he is thinking. Is it the glorious past, the dubious present or is he secretly yearning to join “his people” in the afterlife? Or, is his tired old mind just floating aimlessly on cruise control? Whatever his thoughts, there can be no doubt: He is hopelessly bored and lonely like so many others like him. Naturally, his family has offered to relocate him to friendlier surroundings, but he would rather cling to the uncomfortable remnants of his past than face the uncertainty of a new enviornment.

Sadly, the old man’s story is not unique. It is the journey of many seniors. They either die or become lonely as all of their friends disappear around them, one by one. Where eyes once sparkled, sadness takes over. Aches and pains and doctor’s appointments have replaced the pleasant activities of their former lives. Worse yet, they have forfeited their future.

They like to talk about the good old days because that allows them to take temporary refuge both from their bleak present moments and their scarier future. And so it is with this particular old man. He sits there, confined and lonely, yearning for the good ol’ days.

About all that matters to him now are the occasional visits from his younger family members and keeping that fire going. These are among the few things that still give him a hint of pleasure.

As I shook his quivering hand all of these things raced through my mind as they do most times when I visit him. I tried to act cheerful because it seems to perk him up.

I know the above to be true because I have been bringing this man his firewood for many years. I do not charge him for the wood because I owe him a great debt. Besides, I love him. For you see, the old man is my step-father. Not surprisingly, he has always treated me much better than he has to, just like he treated everybody else.

His wife was my mother.

I am forever indebted to them both.

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