I teach writing and printmaking classes at senior homes in Los Angeles. Over the years, I’ve kept a journal of the memorable things I’ve seen and heard.
In a Palos Verdes writing class, I met a 72-year-old woman with early onset dementia. When she was in her 20s she worked as a mermaid at Marineland of the Pacific. She swam in a large tank with colorful fish and posed for photos with tourists. I asked her to write about the experience. Her story triggered a dementia loop.
I swam underwater so the tourists behind the glass could get pictures. A woman yelled at me because I wore a bikini top and corrupted her son. I tried to tell her I was only swimming underwater so the tourists could get pictures. But she was upset I was wearing a bikini top and corrupting her son. Didn’t she know I was only swimming in the tank so they could get pictures? She thought I was corrupting her son because I wore a bikini top. I told her I was only swimming underwater so…
She grew agitated, unable to extricate herself from the repetitive narrative. I’d experienced this before and knew to redirect her attention to something soothing. I calmly asked her to describe the type of fish in the tank. She said they were reef fish like groupers, parrotfish, angelfish and blue tangs.
“That sounds beautiful,” I said. “What’s your favorite fish?”
“The sea turtles,” she said with a bright smile. “They swim like they’re dancing underwater.”
“Fantastic. That’s such a great story. Thank you for sharing that with us.”
She calmed down and was able to enjoy the rest of the class.
An 85-year-old woman named Gladys in my Boyle Heights senior writing class shared a letter she’d received from her teenage granddaughter. Her granddaughter wrote she was now using the pronouns “she/her.” Gladys didn’t know what this meant. This prompted a class wide discussion of the pronoun issue.
I explained that young people use pronouns to help affirm their gender identity and to feel understood. “She/her” means her granddaughter identifies as a woman.
“She is a woman,” Gladys said.
“Yes, but not all women identify as women.”
“I don’t understand.”
“If your granddaughter wrote she/he this might mean she identifies as both a woman and a man. This is called non-binary.”
“You mean like a tomboy?”
“Kind of,” I said.
“Well she did play basketball with her brothers when she was young. Is that what you’re talking about?”
“Not really,” I said. “Can someone help me out here?”
I stared at the faces of the 70- 80- and 90-year-old folks. All had blank looks except Ray, a mischievous black octogenarian who used to be a bus driver.
“I use pronouns,” he said.
“Really? What are they,” I asked.
“She and it. Except you pronounce it, “Sheeeit!”
Everyone laughed and the class continued.
I met a man who moved to a Culver City senior facility after a homeless man broke into his Santa Monica house. “My wife and I came home from dinner and this dirty naked guy was sitting on our bed. We called the police and then decided to sell our house and move here.” I asked the man if he felt safer after the move. “Yes, but instead of homeless people invading my room, now Alzheimer’s patients walk into my space.”
At a senior home in Lomita, I noticed two men playing chess in the activity room. Instead of chess pieces, they used empty medicine bottles. One of the men, a retired doctor, said the ivory chess pieces were stolen so they replaced them with pharmaceutical bottles. I asked how they determined what piece corresponded with what medication. “Easy,” the doctor said. “Pawns are the most common like Statins since everyone’s on Statins. Rooks are defensive pieces like Beta-Blockers that defend your heart. Oxycodone is an opioid so it relates to Bishops since religion is the opioid of the masses. Potassium pills are big like horse pills so they’re the Knights that ride horses. Anti-depressants are for Queens since women are always complaining. And laxatives are Kings since they’re the king of all medication and cause you to sit on a throne.”
At a home in Hollywood, I met a man named Joe with an artificial leg. He was always smiling and telling jokes. I asked how he stayed so positive despite losing a leg, losing his wife, battling cancer and surviving two heart attacks. He told me it goes back to his EOD days (“Explosive Ordinance Disposal”) in the military. He worked with a team of technicians who defused bombs during the Korean War. Several peers died in explosions while others lost limbs.
Joe told me about the day he and his buddy came upon an unexploded landmine. Military policy dictated that one soldier disable the bomb while the other stayed with the vehicle in case something went wrong. They flipped a coin. Joe’s friend called heads. It came up tails. Joe watched from his jeep as the mine exploded and his friend was torn to pieces. “A fragment of shrapnel ripped into my right thigh,” he said. “It became infected and they had to amputate my leg at the knee. But I survived. I could’ve been the one working on the mine. From that day forward, I appreciate every day above ground. I consider myself the luckiest man in the world.”
In a Hollywood senior writing class, I gave the assignment “Write Your Own Dating Profile.” An 87-year-old woman was so happy with her piece she posted it on Match.com. She received a reply from a 22-year-old guy who claimed to love dating older women. She read the reply in class: “I’m a cougar-hunting himbo looking for a grandma to cuddle with. Okay if you don’t have teeth. Just want to dip my dipstick in a retro engine and listen to the vintage purr.” Students asked if she was planning on dating the guy. She said she was thinking of inviting him to the senior home for dinner. “That way if my retro engine goes kaput, the caregivers can give me a jump start.”
Seniors often discuss their ongoing tests, scans, checkups and blood draws. I always assumed their biggest fear would be a fatal disease or losing their vision. I learned this isn’t the case. Most seniors say their greatest fear is “losing their mind.” As a result, they adopt a gallows humor approach toward dementia and Alzheimer’s disease. Here’s a short list of aphorisms I’ve heard seniors utter regarding cognitive incapacity:
“He’s one slice short of a loaf.”
“She doesn’t know the time of day.”
“His elevator doesn’t reach the top floor.”
“She lost her marbles.”
“His train went round the bend.”
“Her potatoes are overly mashed.”
“His light bulb blew out a few years back.”
“She can hum a tune but don’t ask her to sing the lyrics.”
At a home in Reseda, I encountered an Elvis impersonator performing for residents. He sang classic love songs like “Love Me Tender,” “Are You Lonesome Tonight” and “Can’t Help Falling In Love.” Several elderly women swooned over him. He flirted, offered hugs and kisses and seductively shook his hips while singing. Afterwards, I asked Elvis how many senior facilities he’d performed in.
“Dozens.”
“They love you,” I said.
“Sometimes too much.”
“What do you mean?”
He showed me his right hand where a woman scrawled her phone number with a sharpie.
“Some want me to come back with them to their rooms,” he said. “I’ve had 90-year-olds toss their panties at me. Actually, they were adult diapers. I’m just glad they weren’t poopy pants.”
At a home in Laguna, I met a woman named Rita who told me how a Babka recipe was responsible for her being alive today. In 1895, her maternal grandfather lived in a small Russian town near Kiev. He worked in a village bakery and taught the owner his mother’s cinnamon babka recipe. The babkas became a neighborhood favorite, especially among local police and politicians.
Those were the days of pogroms against Jews. One morning, the bakery was raided by angry peasants searching for Jewish workers. They found Rita’s grandfather and pulled him out of the store. They proceeded to beat him and pour kerosene over his body. As they were about to light him on fire, the local police chief arrived. He recognized the baker as the man who made the babkas and drove off the peasants. He brought the baker to a medical clinic, took him into his own house and his wife nursed him back to health.
Months later, the baker moved to Odessa and opened his own bakery. He saved every penny until he had enough to sail to America with his wife and children. He settled in Brooklyn and started his own bakery. As in Russia, the babka recipe was successful. Rita began working in the bakery when she was 10. Her grandfather taught her the recipe and when she was married at 21, she moved to Los Angeles and started a bakery on Fairfax Avenue. The cinnamon babkas became legendary and allowed her to buy a house and raise three children. Her daughter took over the bakery in 1998 and still sells cinnamon babkas today.