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LJI Week 3: Friend-oku
Oct. 23rd, 2018 06:42 pmThis is my entry for Week 3 of LJ Idol (therealljidol.dreamwidth.org). This week's topic is "Tsundoku," which is the habit of collecting books without ever reading them.
"I wonder where Fanny has been?" my friend Ann mused as we bounced in the chilly pool, trying to get warm. The pool heater was being repaired, but Water Aerobics class had not been canceled.
I tried to remember if Fanny had conveyed to me any plans to be away or other reasons she might stay home. She and I use lockers near each other and usually talk after class. "She's had asthma trouble," I offered, "and it's kept her home a few times recently." I was pretty sure that was true.
Ann shook her head: "No, I think it's her knee. She's had a lot of pain, and she's had to have injections in it recently. I bet that's the problem." After Ann mentioned the knee pain, I suddenly remembered Fanny complaining about the problem a few weeks ago.
The instructor, hearing our conversation, remarked that "Fanny isn't young, you know." Nobody in the class is younger than their 40s, but Fanny is older than most. Frail but determined, Fanny's large eyes and small stature make her seem almost childlike, her papery toffee skin creased with small lines. Ann and I agreed we're not sure of her exact age. Had I ever asked her?
"She has great-grandchildren -- I think," I said, remembering Fanny bragging about the latest addition to family: how quickly the infant seems to be developing. Eventually, more details returned to me. Her granddaughter, retiring from the military, recently crossed the country with the baby girl from the West Coast to the Southeastern U.S. (But where, exactly?) The more I struggled, the more details emerged, but faint and unformed, like half-remembered dreams. All those minutes talking to her, and what did I really know?
If asked, I'd fare better with Ann, although I'd probably twist up the stories she's told me about her family, her friends, and her former employers. When I first started attending Water Aerobics at the YMCA roughly nine years ago, pregnant with my son, I'd adopted Ann, who's now nearing 82, as a surrogate mother. Since my mom passed away three years ago, Ann has become my only mother figure. In our many hours together, the personal stories she's relayed have formed a rich impression of resilience, intelligence and humor, the many qualities that make her seem like family. With her light blue eyes, average height and slightly wavy white hair, she could be my Mom's long lost cousin.
Much less I could relate about Ann's friend Diane, who walks back and forth across the pool with us, before the class starts every morning. Diane, still tan from a month in Florida, her short ash-blonde hair neatly combed, rarely speaks about herself, even when asked. Lately, though, she's complained often about her husband, recovering from knee surgery, because he's been so laughably difficult. After all these years of knowing her, I may be beginning to get past prelude.
So many people I know would fall into the same category: a friendly face, a name perhaps, but little else. For every person whose story I could relate, chapter and verse, so many slip through my life as ciphers. A collection of neighbors, classmates, acquaintances -- even friends -- about whose stories I could scarcely write the Cliff Notes. My fault, perhaps, for being too eager to tell my own story, like the Scout leader I met this past weekend at the Cub Scout Fall Fest. While we waited for my son's pack to finish sling-shotting pebbles at targets, he relayed his entire work and education history, as well as quite a bit about his children, as well.
The funny thing is, I never even got his name.
"I wonder where Fanny has been?" my friend Ann mused as we bounced in the chilly pool, trying to get warm. The pool heater was being repaired, but Water Aerobics class had not been canceled.
I tried to remember if Fanny had conveyed to me any plans to be away or other reasons she might stay home. She and I use lockers near each other and usually talk after class. "She's had asthma trouble," I offered, "and it's kept her home a few times recently." I was pretty sure that was true.
Ann shook her head: "No, I think it's her knee. She's had a lot of pain, and she's had to have injections in it recently. I bet that's the problem." After Ann mentioned the knee pain, I suddenly remembered Fanny complaining about the problem a few weeks ago.
The instructor, hearing our conversation, remarked that "Fanny isn't young, you know." Nobody in the class is younger than their 40s, but Fanny is older than most. Frail but determined, Fanny's large eyes and small stature make her seem almost childlike, her papery toffee skin creased with small lines. Ann and I agreed we're not sure of her exact age. Had I ever asked her?
"She has great-grandchildren -- I think," I said, remembering Fanny bragging about the latest addition to family: how quickly the infant seems to be developing. Eventually, more details returned to me. Her granddaughter, retiring from the military, recently crossed the country with the baby girl from the West Coast to the Southeastern U.S. (But where, exactly?) The more I struggled, the more details emerged, but faint and unformed, like half-remembered dreams. All those minutes talking to her, and what did I really know?
If asked, I'd fare better with Ann, although I'd probably twist up the stories she's told me about her family, her friends, and her former employers. When I first started attending Water Aerobics at the YMCA roughly nine years ago, pregnant with my son, I'd adopted Ann, who's now nearing 82, as a surrogate mother. Since my mom passed away three years ago, Ann has become my only mother figure. In our many hours together, the personal stories she's relayed have formed a rich impression of resilience, intelligence and humor, the many qualities that make her seem like family. With her light blue eyes, average height and slightly wavy white hair, she could be my Mom's long lost cousin.
Much less I could relate about Ann's friend Diane, who walks back and forth across the pool with us, before the class starts every morning. Diane, still tan from a month in Florida, her short ash-blonde hair neatly combed, rarely speaks about herself, even when asked. Lately, though, she's complained often about her husband, recovering from knee surgery, because he's been so laughably difficult. After all these years of knowing her, I may be beginning to get past prelude.
So many people I know would fall into the same category: a friendly face, a name perhaps, but little else. For every person whose story I could relate, chapter and verse, so many slip through my life as ciphers. A collection of neighbors, classmates, acquaintances -- even friends -- about whose stories I could scarcely write the Cliff Notes. My fault, perhaps, for being too eager to tell my own story, like the Scout leader I met this past weekend at the Cub Scout Fall Fest. While we waited for my son's pack to finish sling-shotting pebbles at targets, he relayed his entire work and education history, as well as quite a bit about his children, as well.
The funny thing is, I never even got his name.
