Silver-Tongued Devil, Sr.

I went by a nursing home today to clear out some papers for a friend whose mother had been moved; he lives in Florida and couldn't get up here to do it. As I was leaving with a cart of boxes I came across an elderly gentleman, smiled and said, "Hey, how are you this afternoon." He replied that he was as well as could be expected. I gave an encouraging smile and said, "Hanging in there, huh?" He didn't seem too enthused about the fact.

He then challenged me, "How old do you think I am?" Heck. I'm horrible at guessing ages. So I said, "I don't know. How old do you think I am?" He gave me a closer look and said, "Oh, in your 40's." I blessed him right then and there and told him I'm 56. He said I'm his daughter's age. He then took off on the subject of his daughter. Said she really needed to lose weight. I thought, "Shades of Daddy ... I do not need a STRANGER after me on that." I, said, "Hey, hey, baggy sweatshirt," and drew it closer around me. He looked at me more closely again, up and down, then said, "No, I didn't mean you. You're okay. You're like one of my wives was. I was married three times." I laughed and asked him then how old he was. 92, to be 93 in September. He got out his driver's license to prove it. (I would've been way wrong if I'd guessed. Would've guessed late 70's, early 80's.)

Roy was hard to get away from. He wanted to keep talking. I eventually picked up a box and tried to ease my way out the door, but he wasn't having any of that. I finally caught a passing aide's eye and mouthed, "Help." She lingered, trying to divert his attention, but it took a while longer. He finally said, "Well, I have to go. She'll [meaning me] talk all afternoon if I let her."

I have the feeling I, a stranger, may've been the bright spot in his day. Nursing homes are sad places.

Just Call Me ...

A conversation with a friend yesterday is responsible for this post. We were discussing my oh-so-common name, "Patricia Crafford". I explained to him that it has only been for sheer pleasure that I've spent years going through the little spiel, "Yes, it's pronounced as if it was spelled 'C-R-A-W-F-O-R-D', but it's spelled 'C-R-A-F-F-O-R-D'; no no, it's correct the way it is, two 'F's, no 'W' ". Seriously ... I used to long to marry someone named Smith or Jones.

But in recent years I came up with a new plan. I am not the only one with name problems. We should all be entitled to solve birth defects by completely renaming ourselves. Legally; free of charge; just fill out and file some papers and be good to go.

I then took the plan a step further. Life spans are damned long now; both of my grandmothers lived into their 90's. So, how about every 25 years? At age 25 you get a shot at curing whatever ills your parents bestowed upon you (intentionally or unintentionally). At age 50, when chances are great you'll be a completely different person, you get to pick another name if you wish. At age 75, my gosh are you entitled! And so on.

I feel fairly certain I would've gone through a hippy stage and been "Breeze".