I have a lot of old lady friends. There’s Dorothy, 93, the last of my Mother’s (R.I.P.) great friends. She’s completely with it and seems not to have forgotten anything. There’s Barbara, 85, who I swore I’d never talk to again because she’s such a narcissist, but of course I continue keeping in touch because, because despite everything, she’s a great conversationalist who’s led a fascinating life. And the last time I talked to Ana, a retired RN and self-professed know-it-all, on the phone I asked her to remind me how old she was. She said “89 (pause) and a half”. There are others.
When the pandemic started 3 years ago, there was so much scary information out there, but one thing seemed true – older folks were the most likely to have fatal consequences from COVID, especially if they have underlying issues. And who doesn’t have underlying issues? It occurred to me I should make a point of calling certain people on a kind of regular basis. Some lived on their own. Some I knew for a long time, some not so long.
As much as I had concern for my friends, I didn’t want my calls to be taken as an invitation to a pity party where they could unload all their problems and health concerns. To prevent that, I wouldn't start the conversation with “Hi, how are you?” Instead, when they picked up the phone I would say “Hi Ana, it’s Mark. When was the last time you were in Jefferson City?” and she’d be off. Of course, to ask her that question, I’d have to remember she lived there at one time, so to prepare myself for these calls, I’d write a few questions out on a piece of paper. Sometimes if I couldn’t come up with a good question, I’d go through some photos, taking note of details like dogs, cars, husbands.
It was only natural, as I was talking on the phone, a piece of paper with notes next to me, to start jotting down some of the things they were telling me. For instance, I have known Dorothy all my life but not until I started having these ‘covid-era conversations’ did I find out she was born in Weller, OH, a village (her term) on the Ohio River that has been producing Weller Pottery for over a hundred years and when she was a girl during the summer months she worked in the little factory. After a while, these little scraps of paper became little piles of scraps of paper for each of the people I was talking to. To prevent it from becoming a mess I began keeping these little piles in their separate file folder.
The pandemic is over and for the most part the big scare is over too. Eventually my phone calls tapered off and although I still call them periodically, it is not with the same regularity as before. One day, not long ago, I received the sad news that one of my old lady friends had passed (not from COVID) and I was told there would be a memorial service, which I then attended. At one point the service was open to anyone who wanted to say something, and when the microphone got to me even her children were surprised I knew so much about her upbringing, accomplishments and what she held dear in her life.
After that experience, I decided to go back to those folders with their innumerable scraps of paper, and somehow put some order to them and write a concise, orderly ‘picture’ of their lives. Because I am a better storyteller than a writer, it turns out I can tell the story of these people better than I can write about them.
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