Prison!

by

Yielding to the continued insistence of her son, the aged aunt finally moved into an assisted living home in San Jose. We met her for dinner last week. The place is a block away from Santana Row, just across from Winchester Mystery house. Medium rise, with its own restaurant that knows how to cater for the elderly and infirm.

The aged aunt no longer even bothers with her hearing aids, which is less of a problem than it seems, because she is more interested in talking than listening anyway. Taking a cue from the life of Beethoven, Jacky always takes along a pad of paper and a pencil so she can conduct something like her half of a conversation. It’s better than nothing.

Let’s discuss events somewhat out of order:

After we ate, we went up to see her apartment. She has not been there all that long, but it bore an uncanny resemblance to the previous apartment, the one she vacated to come here: overstuffed with clutter, completely disorganized, dark and not very clean. Smaller than her old apartment, but otherwise indistinguishable.

Which made it doubly interesting that she had commented during dinner that she was determined to resist temptation and be good. She reasons that, if she behaves herself for a while longer, maybe they will let her go home! Sad that she thinks of it as a prison.

The staff were very nice. All of the restaurant people were overweight (sign of a good cook?), including the cook herself, who came around to talk with everyone.

The kitchen staff may have been well fed, but the meal I ordered was distinctly on the short side. I learned later that my cousin Jan had ordered two meals; it looked like just about the right amount. So after we said our good-byes, we walked a block down the street to the Subway sandwich shop, where I added on a six-inch Subway sandwich to make up for the deficit.

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