Relaxing with Natalie

 I've known Scott's mother, Natalie, for all of 15 years. It wasn't until a week ago that I realized how brilliant - yes brilliant! - she is.

Like Ada's mother, Natalie has never driven a car. Her husband Dave did all the driving. He was a terrible driver.

"Hard on cars," his son Scott would say.

When we drove to Carousel Condos, rife with people who are selfish and mostly think of themselves, a new sign read, "Pull in head-first so noxious fumes do not settle inside rooms."

Great idea!

Natalie had come from Scott's where he had found letters for her plus photos and seashells from their beloved Jersey shore.

"Where was your dad buried?" I asked Scott.

"Don't you remember," he said. "We dropped his ashes in the Atlantic Ocean."

The entire family was there:  Debbie and Danny, a married couple; Maxine who worked at Aramark; and the black dog Zoe, who was beside herself with grief.

Scott and I would drive his white Honda Fit over to a hotel we never stayed at - the Marquis de Lafayette - since our Regency Towers was filled.

Scott can be a tough guy. When we bought his Honda at Sussman Honda, he said, "I'm not playing any games. You either sell me the car for the ticket price or I'll go elsewhere."

I'll save my story about buying my Nissan Sentra for another time. 

Natalie had a masterful sense of style in her condo.

Most items were locked up in see-through cabinets to protect them from the elements. Mickey Mouse was one of her proudest objects. In fact, sitting here in my Composing Room, I have a huge prison-blue cup of Walt Disney World, filled with pens, pencils, rulers, Magic Markers, and those fancy pens you get when you open an enormous package from the Lakota Indians. 

I hadn't been to her condo since the High Holy Days. She would buy her dinners at Whole Foods, not my favorite, but she had been cooking her entire life. It was at these dinners we saw her husband Dave's diminishing cognition.

When he came to my 70th birthday party at my home on Cowbell Road, he was downright rude to me. 

Jealous? 

Dunno.

Natalie had a long dining room table. She asked both Scott and me if we wanted any racks for our CDs - no - radios? - no - and showed us some painted pictures on the walls which were then in vogue.

She kept the patio door shut against burglars and squirrels.

Off in the distance was green grass like you might find in Ireland. They had been to Ireland several times and it was the best place they had ever been. I still have a smooth "rubbing stone" they brought me back.

Never would I give that away.

Like her son, Scott, she was fiercely independent. 

In her bedroom was a photo from when she and Dave were married.

What a handsome man he was.

Even I marveled at it.

In the kitchen, her sink was in the corner. Not a great place, but she would always do her dishes and leave none in the sink. 

Now I do mine.

High above - and these were almost cathedral ceilings - she had two face masks - a delicate man and woman.

Everything I saw, I wanted to say, but refrained myself, "Where did you get that?"

If Dave, with his ever expanding waistline, were still here. he would be sitting on the sofas noshing M & Ms and pretzels and peanuts.

"Are you used to living alone?" I asked.

"You get used to it," she said, in her high-pitched voice.

Her hair was growing in and she wasn't wearing one of her lovely blonde wigs.

Breast cancer. Her family doctor had suggested she get testosterone treatments, which he thought would be good for her.

She was philosophical. 

She turned on the television, a smaller version than they had when Dave was alive.

Zillions of channels popped up.

If I lived here, I would lie on the couch and watch hours of television, while sleeping in between.

How happy I would be.

I was anxious to get home, fearing I might get "low" from my diabetes. 

Natalie gave me a bottle of water to drink. 

Such fun!

I would never buy bottled water. Too expensive and wasteful. When I walked around the block at home, some people threw their water bottles in the street or onto lawns.

Often I would open the bottle and pour it onto the grass.

Or onto these little islands on the sidewalk where grass grew.

So many different worlds.

So many.

Natalie Sherman and husband Dave.