I don't usually recount personal stories on this here journal, but today was such a scintillating tidbit that I don't think I can let it pass. My mom moved to a small town. Atleast, it's pretty danged small when compared with the suburbs of Minneapolis from which we came. She didn't want to deal with the everyday, outdoor hub-bub of owning a house, so she bought a townhouse within an association. I've come to realize that it's less like an association and more like a retirement village. It's a nice place, though. Or rather, the extremely old lady who lived her before my mom moved in thought so. Don't worry; she didn't die. Well, not at that time anyway. Who knows about now. Anyhoo. So, my mom has been living here for a few months (try 9) now. She still doesn't know anyone. Not even who her neighbors are. She gets this flier in the mail. It seems that every such-and-such time, the association hosts a little gathering where the residents (that's what we always called the old people when I worked in the home, anyway) can get together and chat. I didn't know they were ALL old people. I suggested we go. After some hesitation, she bended to my decision. We take a walk down to the club house and as we open the door and step in, the scent of fresh lilac drifts into our nasal passages. So far, it isn't awful. It doesn't smell anything like the nursing home. I take that as a good sign. At the top of a short flight of stairs (it can't be too long; I'm not sure all those titanium hips could take it), three avuncular looking gentlemen greeted us: Lyle, Stan, and Dick. I could see Stan was the dry-humor one of the crowd. Dick was the most able-bodied, or atleast the most active, and was very personable. He turned out to be a close neighbor (we share a wall), and Lyle was a nice guy whose hearing aid didn't work the best. We then made our way to a long table with various desserts displayed. There was a rhubarb, pecan, apple, and lemon pie. There were brownies and little pastries. At the end one had the option of lemonade or coffee. I don't know; maybe Ruth would have let you take both. Then we sat down at our table with the Three Amigos. It was right about then that I started feeling like I had checked in. We made small talk with FAR too many awkward silences in which my mind was very busy churning away about Abraham Lincoln (if you don't know, don't ask). The theme of the night was hobbies and collections. Everyone took turns standing up (well, not EVERYone) and showing what they collected or hobbeyed (that's a verb now): different kinds of eggs (all decorative), quilting, hand carvings, knitting. My mom showed an angel that she had cross-stitched. The blue-hairds all ooohed and ahhhed. I didn't bring anything. They gratefully passed right over me. Next is when an already, ummm, less-than-stellar evening turned ugly. In walks Tachih. He's an elderly (surprised?) Japanese-American. He's bringing a large three-ring-binder under his arm. His manuscript, he tells everyone. Everyone seems to already know. There had been some talk about Tachih before he got there. Something about soy beans and perhaps limiting Tachih to only speaking for 15 minutes. I was a bit confused, but started to develop a picture. Any confusion was immediately lifted, though, once it was Tachih's turn to share. He proceeded to talk for a minute shy of 20 minutes about his life story -- the alleged content of his manuscript. He used to be a professor at the local college, so I gave him a little slack. He was used to lecturing to a room full of bored people, after all. Maybe he just didn't notice. Then he came over to the table where my mother and I, along with Betty (a newcomer) and the Three Wisemen sat. He and my mother briefly about my mom's picture (briefly because it didn't seem Tachih was interested in much else other than his life story). He asked me if I was an artist. It slipped out that I like to write. Like a sanguinary shark to a bleeding wound, he got me -- and he got me good. He told me there were many stories in his book, many he'd like others to write. Would I like to write one? I should come over to his house sometime and he'd show me some. They're not all blockbusters, but they're marketable. Here, take my email. Could you write down your name? And your phone number? I didn't have the heart to fake-number him. I'm thankful for caller id. In retrospect, though, Tachih could be interesting story fodder. I know the whole evening was actually quite an experience -- one I will no doubt draw on later. Of course, when I do -- I'll probably reject it as cliched. Because the whole experience seemed that way. I swear, every few minutes, Lyle would chime in with a "What did he say?" to which Dick would whisper, usually two or three times, exactly what had transpired that Lyle's belltones didn't pick up.

As long as they aren't singing kareoke every Wednesday, you're safe.

*Shudders* I sat through old-people kareoke twice last summer. TWICE! At this little retirement village where being over 55 is a requirement of moving in.

Oh Ollie, you are going to be a successful writer someday....that was such a great story. I can't wait to read more!

"Bingo!"

"What?"

"I said I have bingo!"

"Oh, well why didn't you say so? The bathroom is down the hall on your left."