The Catskill Chronicle

By Janet Waterston

As Thanksgiving approached and friends described their plans, I felt a bit sorry for my sister, Jude, and me that we’d be spending another holiday at the nursing home with our dad. We knew we wanted to be there for him, but I can’t say I approached the day with much graciousness. After all, being with elderly people isn’t always easy or rewarding. My dad can no longer hold up his end of a conversation; some of the Home’s residents are crotchety; and efforts to meet their needs aren’t always well-received or appreciated. There’s the dictionary I’d bought for Inge when she told me how difficult it was to play Scrabble without one. “The print is too little,” she announced to me the next time I saw her. I offered to get a large print dictionary instead, and she informed me, with some indignation, that she could see just fine with her glasses. Or there were the earrings Jude and I gave to Vincenza for her birthday. She opened the box and declared, “There they are!” as if they were some lost pair of earrings and not a gift from us. There was even an afternoon when I came to visit my dad, and he wouldn’t leave the bingo game because he’d already paid his money. All two cents of it!

Despite these seeming acts of ingratitude, Inge always pulls me aside to tell me she has discovered that a word from her native German is also in the Scrabble dictionary (which she did accept from me). When Vincenza wears her earrings, she blushes with delight from any compliment or recognition that she’s dolled herself up. And most times when Jude and I arrive, my dad tears up and announces, “You don’t know how happy I am to see you.”

So, I devoted the Wednesday before Thanksgiving to baking. I used my grandmother’s butter cookie recipe and her Ateco cookie press, and I channeled her announcing, “I used three pounds of butter.” I finally understood why she thought that was such a big deal. Twelve sticks of butter transpose into about 12 trays of cookies, and that’s a lot of time spent in the kitchen.

Jude arose at 6:00 on Thanksgiving morning and cooked all the components of the traditional meal that we carted to the nursing home by noon to ensure Dad and his tablemate, Vincenza, didn’t accidentally chow down on the institutional offering of overcooked greens and dried turkey breast.

The communal dining room had a festive air. The tables had been covered with orange paper clothes, and each was topped with a colorful bouquet of crepe paper flowers. “Did you help make these?” I asked Vincenza, assuming the recreation department had orchestrated a craft activity to make the centerpieces. “Oh, yes,” she assured me, and I briefly wondered if that was so, having once had Vincenza explain to me that she planned the outings for the Home’s residents. When she mentioned the trip to Paris, I realized there was some blurring of reality.

I moved to the next table to greet Alex who’s lost both his legs to diabetes and barely has the use of his hands. I helped him select his entrees from the following week’s menu, knowing he would reject any fish (“who knows when it was caught,” he’s commented in the past); the red meats that are too tough; or the pastas that are overcooked. “You want the chicken? The leg?” I asked as he assented and, at the same time, said, “the leg.” “I made you some sugar-free cookies,” I told him, “I’ll leave them in your room.”

I turned to Evelyn and Eleanor at a nearby table. Evelyn, who is 90 and just recently became diabetic, doesn’t remember her diagnosis, much less the dietary restrictions. I told her I’d baked her cookies with Splenda and assured Eleanor, for whom I make cookies throughout the year, holiday or not, that she can have a refill whenever she wants it. Eleanor has been quick to inform me when I’ve broken a “house” rule by pushing a resident in her wheelchair back to her room when rolling herself seemed like too much of an ordeal. Since Eleanor enjoys her butter cookie stash, she’s neglected to mention another house regulation that residents may only receive food from their own family members. I checked with a staff member about pushing the wheelchair. “Oh, yeah, there is such a rule,” I’m told, “but it’s not meant for you. We know you, and you know what the residents can and can’t do.”

While I and other residents’ relatives circulated the room with our well wishes, Jude used the Home’s microwave to warm the food for Dad and Vincenza. Vincenza directed me to remove the butternut squash and green beans from her plate and to give her only a little bit of cranberry sauce. And she didn’t want any mushrooms in her mushroom gravy. Dad announced, “I like green beans the least of any vegetable,” but he ate everything with gusto and even took seconds.

After the meal, we pushed Dad down the corridor to his room and passed one of the residents sitting with her daughter in the hallway. We all asked after each other’s health and exchanged Thanksgiving greetings. Dad grabbed the hand of the resident and gave it a squeeze as he and the woman’s daughter blew each other kisses. In his room, we gave Dad the coffee ice cream we bring on every visit, and this time I’d also brought chocolate ice cream for Dad’s new roommate. Archie looked in amazement that I’d remembered his favorite flavor. When he finished eating, he maneuvered his wheelchair into the bathroom and somehow managed to wash the spoon and Tupperware container. I wanted to tell him that wasn’t necessary, but I’ve come to understand that every little bit of self-sufficiency is not only necessary, but a necessity as one ability after another slips away.

Jude and I returned to my apartment, and she proceeded to heat the meal for us. As we sat down to the table, I realized that I was having one of my best Thanksgivings in memory. Why had I wallowed in self-pity when I now have this extended family of people? I know turkey has some quality that makes it a mood elevator, but we hadn’t yet eaten, and I was feeling happy and sated.