If You Can, Please Help Me Help This Vet

I was having dinner with the Peas – Sweet and Grand – when a “neighbor” called.  During the summer I had observed Neighbor bobbing and weaving on unsteady feet, carrying many grocery bags in the heat of the day, as I entered the gate to our community.   He appeared to be near collapse.  It’s quite a walk from the gate to even the first building and it turned out that his is well beyond mine.  I stopped and suggested he put his many bags in the back seat and let me drive him as close to his door as possible.  He was really having a hard time.   

I remember that after arriving at his building, he sat in the car for a very long time.  The A/C was running high and I guessed it was more than he was accustomed to, so I just sat and waited him out.  He spoke of his recent stroke, and losing the ability to drive his taxi, his means of livelihood.  I gave him my card and told him if he ever needed a lift to call me, and if I was anywhere near, I would fetch him.   

This evening he called, for the first time, asking for a ride to the local WalMart to get water.  For that, he had definitely called an understanding person.   He picked up a case of 32 bottles.  I suggested he get more and told him I would take care of it.  

As we walked the aisles of the store, he caught me up.   Neighbor is losing his home because of unpaid maintenance fees.   A realtor is helping him with a short sale (his place needs some work and he cannot get market price).   Probing, I asked what the balance of his mortgage was.  When he told me I couldn’t believe it!   He thinks he’s going to get a few thousand from the sale, but I am doubtful, considering the condition of the place (as he described it) and the balance of the mortgage.   I am also concerned that a realtor would have a recovering stroke patient sign a contract.   From my interactions with him I am skeptical of his ability to understand clearly what he is doing.  Also, Neighbor lost his taxi because he has been unable to work.  He is confident that when he gets a medical release, the taxi company with which he contracted will allow him to drive and thereby earn an income.

I am concerned for Neighbor.   His siblings have refused to help him and it seems he has no other family.  He is a veteran.   Tomorrow I will try to contact the VA to see if there is anything they can do to help him – an advocate –- securing living quarters or something — I really don’t know what, but I hope something.

This is one of those times when it would be nice if either 1) I had won the lottery and built my dream “commune” for seniors and parentless children, or 2) I was just plain old wealthy with a generous heart intact.

If any who reads this as an idea to help Neighbor, please contact me.

The Groping Incident

Introduction

In recent years I have finally mentioned the rape I experienced more than 30 years ago.  Now, with  current news snippets tossing out the many instances of Mr. Trump’s abuse of women, The Groping Incident has found its way to the forefront of my thinking.  While there was more than one groping incident, the one of which I write here was for me the most foul.  It threw me totally off guard and left me speechless and feeling worthless, insignificant ... and filthy.  

The Groping Incident

There was a time, decades ago, that I regularly baked.  A lot.  And my favorite baked good was a chocolate chip cookie, made in an 8-inch pie pan.   The recipe was mine and to this day, still my favorite.   I baked these huge cookies and folks practically inhaled them.  It was not unusual for people to make cookie requests, and I responded by delivering a freshly baked 8-inch chocolate chip cookie.

When an associate minister of a more-than-century-old-church, a man old enough to be my father, asked me to bring him a cookie, I thought nothing of it.  The following week I presented him with a cookie – wrapped in foil, still warm from the oven, having been baked that morning.   As he reached for it with one hand, with his other hand he cupped my left breast.  And squeezed.   I was shocked speechless, and he walked away without a word.   I wanted to run away, and could not.  It was shortly before 11:00 a.m. and I was due to play for the 11:00 o’clock worship service.   I entered the sanctuary, sat at the piano, and felt as if every pair of eyes in the sanctuary were settled on me, accusingly, as if I had committed some atrocity.  Haunted by the unanswered question “what did I do to deserve that,” I have no memory of what hymns were sung, what special music the choir sang, or the text of the sermon delivered that day.   The one thing I do remember, however, is that the old guy was not there in his usual seat.