In the middle of the morning I took the rental car to the
airport. I was reluctant to turn it in. The Elantra was smooth and easy and I’d
driven 450 miles and spent only $35 on gas. The van certainly has its
advantages, but it is neither smooth nor economical.
I could’ve called my aunt or uncle to pick me up, but I
walked a couple hours back to Grandpa’s house instead. I crossed the freeway
and wove my way through a neighborhood of ramblers built in the 50s and 60s,
comfortable houses, I suppose, but non-descript and without charm. Eventually I had to take to a
main road, and I passed banks and fast food franchises, a movie theater complex
of stucco grandiosity, strip malls, a Walmart … and the cars rushed past at too
high speeds, and I had been one of them, a driver, but now I wasn’t, and they
got the wide road and I got the narrow sidewalk, and I had to take great care
at all crossings…. A key way of distinguishing any outdoor experience is
whether one is in a car or one is not.
Back at the house, the afternoon stretched awkwardly before
me…. I watched sports, a bit of the film Casino….
I spread maps out on the living room floor and considered where I might go on
an overnight backpacking trip. A tentative plan: rest, send home for some
different equipment, do an overnighter test, drive back down to Bishop, take
to the trail again.... But I don’t know.
At three I drove in the van to the Rehab Center. Grandpa was
sitting in the same easy chair by the window, watching the tv. He was surprised
to see me. He looked better, a little less tired.
But when I asked about when he might leave he seemed in no hurry. “I don’t
know,” he said, “those steps.” He was referring to the two steps at the house,
from the garage into the kitchen. I thought a ramp might be arranged, but I
didn’t say so. It’s not like he hasn’t thought about his options.
I pulled up a chair next to his and gave him a brief account
of my medical adventure, and he told me how his physical therapy was going. And
then we fell into silence and gave our attention to the television, which was
tuned to a station called MeTv. An episode of Big Valley was showing, and Barbara Stanwyck was overwrought,
trying to protect her daughter and jumping off boulders. Next was The Wild, Wild West, with Robert Conrad,
then consecutive episodes of The Rifleman
with Chuck Connor. In the second of
the latter, Connor temporarily loses his memory, is mistaken for a ruthless,
murdering outlaw, and almost lynched (none of which significantly affected his
well-producted hair).
I wouldn’t have thought I could sit still for so much
terrible television, but I had nowhere else to be , and so why not sit and take it…. But Green Acres followed and I began to get
restless….
I had planned to leave at dinner, but when a young attendant
came by Grandpa told her to bring two meals to the room. She looked at me, to
see if I wanted to override him. I hesitated, trying to decide whether to
resist, but then waved my hand and said, sure. The entree was advertised as a
club sandwich, but turned out to be half a grilled cheese and ham. Also, a few
sweet potato fries on the side, a small helping of spinach and pasta salad, and
shallow bowl of melted chocolate ice cream. Grandpa tried to give me his pasta
salad. “I didn’t touch it,” he said.
I left halfway through the second episode of Green Acres, in which Zsa Zsa Gabor was
flashing back to her work in the Hungarian Resistance in World War II (she
would step out into the road, scantily clad, the German tank drivers would open
their hatch for a better look, make brief appreciative and laugh track-inducing
remarks, and Zsa Zsa's compatriots would blow them up. Ha Ha).
Back at the house I put on the tv to programming more to my
own taste—a baseball game, a documentary on Title IX.... All the advertising on
MeTv had been for the elderly—emergency response devices, health insurance one
can obtain without a prior examination (Alex Trebek, do you really need the
money?)—and I wondered, what is it about 60s and 70s network programming that
is so compelling for the over-80 set? Is
it connected somehow to nostalgia for the comforts of middle-age?
When I am an octogenarian will I be drawn to episodes of Seinfeld, Law and Order, ER? I’d
argue that each of those shows are better than what was on in the 60s, but
still, such repetition doesn’t sound like a very engaging story experience….
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