KAY AT THE CASINO

My 83-year-old roommate, Kay, went to the casino today.  (She went with her 82-year-old, trailer-driving sister.)

I came home from work to find her lying on the couch, wrapped up in a blanket, watching TV.

Poor thing, I thought.  She must not be feeling well.

I made sure my voice was properly hushed:  "How are you?"

She popped right up into a sitting position, her hair arching off her head like a halo of dandelion fluff.

"Oh, just fine!  I'm a little tired."  (I love the way she says "tired."  It sounds like "TIE-uhd.")  "My sister and I went down to Mohican Casino and then wandered around for a few hours."  ("OW-uhs.")  "We walked about four miles.   That's a lot when you're not used to it."

"That is a lot.  But wait. . .you went to a casino?  What were you doing there?"

She looked at me like I was a little slow. 

"Playing the slot machines, of course.  I lost all the money I gambled."

"Oh," I said.  "I'm sorry."

She laughed and waved me away.  Kay laughs a lot.  She makes me feel like a very amusing person.

I think we amuse each other.

*****

In other news, Kay has finished her puzzle and introduced me to CSI.

Also, I had an interview at Dean College.  More about that later. . .

PUZZLE PIECES

Franklin.

Here we go again:  Brand new town, brand new job, brand new phase of life. . .and lots of old memories to re-contextualize.

Funny how the state of my room mirrors the state of my mind!

Right now, my floor is strewn with everything from Russian magazines to final research papers to bottles of cream to bulky sweaters that I haven't worn in years.  My things smell of England, of Ukraine, of Boston. . .but this new house has a smell of its own, and I have a feeling that, like me, my belongings will start to assimilate.  Time to unpack and organize.

The rooms smell old here - in a solid, history-saturated kind of way.  The house was built in the early 1900's, and it's a fifteen-minute walk from the city center, founded in 1778 (when our nation was only two!).  The kitchen has a stovepipe, the sink is tucked away in a separate washing room, and the doors are heavy oak.  (I half expect to see a Victorian servant slipping around the corners. . .)

Franklin was named after Ben (Franklin), and it boasts America's first library - including a collection of books donated by the man himself.  (When I use the word "boast," I mean it.  The Franklin-ites are downright braggy about their library!)

Speaking of books, I own way too many for this little room.  Way. Too. Many.  (It's like a small jaw stuffed with way too many teeth: No matter how I arrange things, the result is always cluttered and crooked!)  But do I need more space?   Not really.  I love the self-contained coziness of my new room; it fits me.  If I could just find a place for every book, every file, every memento, then maybe I could start doing the same with all of the thoughts in my head.  If could make all the pieces fit in one neat and tidy space, then maybe they would mean more as a composite than they do as loose sheets of paper.  Or maybe not.

*Sigh* Too much deep cleaning always results in a bad case of philosophizing!  :-)

I step outside of my room for a quick break and a rejuvenating swig of V8.  Kay, my 80-something-year-old roommate is working on her latest 1,000-piece puzzle.

"You're here!" she says.  "I thought you'd gone out.  I drove around looking for you when it started to rain."

Kay is as sweet and as wrinkled as a raisin.  She's spunky too!  She still putters around in her car - but only within city limits.  Her body is slow, but her mind is quick, and she's patient with my sluggishness as I adjust to my new surroundings.  She's invited me several times to watch episodes of Law and Order.  ("I don't go for the silly stuff - I Love Lucy or Beverly Hillbillies," she informed me. "Give me Perry Mason any day!")

Now she's examining me carefully.  I wonder if she notices my still-puffy eyes.  (It's hard to hide the evidence of an emotional departure!)

"Want to help me with my puzzle?  I've divided up the colors."

The pieces are small, and they all look the same.  I walk over, sift through a few, and then turn back to my room.

"What?  Giving up already?"  She studies my pieces for a second and then, quickly, fits eight or nine into place.  I sit down.

"How did you do that?"

"Just look for the patterns."

I pull a few pieces toward me and examine them more carefully.  It's a picture of Croatia, and there's a similarity in the lines on the tiled roofs.   I snap two pieces together.

"Very good!  You're doing it."

I look up at her from my chair - up at eighty-plus years of knowledge from my 26-year-old vantage point.  

Maybe I am doing it.  Maybe there is a place for everything.

I think I'm ready for the challenge.