hardy lot. Old, but hardy.
The manager steps through the doorway into the driveway circling the
complex and motions to Finegan and Joey to follow her.
Come on back, I’ll show you.
______________________________
The nursing home vegetable garden is at the back of the complex. Most
of the gardens are raised beds, long rectangular beds formed by a heavy
lumber posts laid horizontally on top of one another, held firm by
stakes along the outside driven into the ground. The wall is two feet
tall with soil in the interior of the bed. There is a pipe running down
the center of each bed for watering with a spigot at one end. The pipes
have holes punched into them so water sprays out down the length of the
pipe. In between the beds is what was intended to be lawn, but it has
not been mowed in ages. Instead, there are wheelchair tracks and a path
between the beds, from use.
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Several oldsters are tending the garden. Half are in wheelchairs, which
pull alongside the beds so the oldsters can simple reach over and pull
weeds or collect produce or whatever. Some oldsters are using walkers
and sit on the edges of the beds. The beds were intended to be
accessible and to not require bending down, designed for the
handicapped or aged.
Finegan and the manager are followed by a curious Joey who is trying to
get the many cats to come up to him. He bends over and calls to them,
but they are illusive though interested and keep circling him. The
manager is pointing while talking.
We were fortunate, having these put in ahead of
time. And we saved the seed, year to year. All
those things were therapy, physical therapy.
We’d make a big deal out of it, sorting seeds
into plastic zip bags and labeling them,
sharing them with family. Now it’s proved to be
a Godsend.
Some of the oldsters turn their heads at their approach and smile and
wave. Finegan asks,
What do you do for meat?
The manager puts her finger to her mouth, a shush motion, and in a low
voice replies.
I’ll tell you later.
Finegan and the manager have been walking along the path, which circles
around and returns to the complex buildings. They are approaching some
benches along the path. The manager sits down, patting the seat next to
her for Finegan to do likewise. She looks down the path to be sure no
one is close enough to hear.
You can see we’ve got cats. We’ve got a
population explosion.
The manager glances at Finegan’s face, prepared to drop the bomb and
wanting to see if he’s ready for it.
I’ve got several female cats that bring me
their catch. It’s the females that hunt. . .
Must be a rat population explosion somewhere,
as they rarely fail to deliver. Every morning,
there they are, dead rats, fresh meat, on my
doorstep.
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She glances at Finegan’s face again.
Well, it’s protein! I cook it to death, meat
falls off the bone, mix it into the soup that’s
supper every night. . . No one’s died yet.
Finegan leans back against the bench back, putting one foot up on the
other knee, relaxed. He says,
I’m sure you’re not the only one. . . Don’t you
fish?
The manager says,
We don’t have a pier. Don’t have a boat. And
except for myself, who could manage it? They’d
drown trying. . . We do have a pole and line.
Some relative would come for a visit and haul a
resident off to some riverbank for a picnic. So
we had a pole and line on hand. . . But I can’t
leave. I’m the only one here. . . Plus my day
is long enough as is.
Just then one of the female cats saunters up with a dead rat in its
mouth and drops it at the manager’s feet. The manager leans forward to
praise and pet the cat.
Why thank you Mitzy! That’s a beautiful gift!
______________________________
The peace on the main street has been shattered by the sound of lumber
being pulled apart, nails loosened but still holding and complaining as
boards are pulled apart. The mayor comes to his window to see what’s
going on.
Hey! You can’t take that! That belongs to
someone.
Finegan appears in a window near where his canoe has been tied. The
window has been pushed out for easy access. He sticks his head out the
window to yell back.
So sue me. . . How come you’re not helping that
woman up there tending the old folks?
The mayor gets a disgusted look on his face and flaps his hand again in
the direction of Finegan, as though dismissing him, and turns to
shuffle back into his apartment. Lumber pieces start flying out of the
window – studs and railings and numerous floorboards, splashing as it
hits the water. In the background there is more hammering as Finegan is
retrieving nails as he dismantles the building.
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The oldsters in the garden are all shock still, their jaws a bit agape,
heads turned in the direction of the noise, listening to the sound of
construction.
______________________________
That evening the manager, Finegan and Joey, and several of the oldsters
in wheelchairs or clinging to walkers are looking out over the water in
a beautiful sunset. A floating pier can be seen, with a long ramp down
to the pier accessible by wheelchairs. Former 6” wide hardwood floor
boards from one of the old flooded town buildings, torn from the floor
of the second floor, are used as the pier bed and lengthwise as a ramp
to the floating pier. As the water raises, the pier will too.
Posts from an interior railing are placed along the side of the ramp
and pier, with rope strung between the posts as guardrails. The whole
lot is irregular, the posts painted white, the floor boards a scuffed
brown, and the rope of varying thickness. Finegan did not have a saw so
the ends of boards stick out at the end of the pier. Studs have been
hammered along the top of the pier bed, along the edges, as wheelchair
guards. Some chairs from the raided second story apartment are placed
here and there for those coming to fish on walkers.
The manager looks sideways at Finegan, who is standing beside her. She
says,
You must stay for supper. And I think the