Community Spirit

I’ve been busy modernizing my basement so that I can have a tenant to fund my trips to San Diego. Peeling back layers and frayed electrical wiring was quite an experience, but even more entertaining was interviewing the applicants. I chatted with a botanist, pastry chef, woman fleeing from abusive husband, pool cleaner, shuttle driver, web designer, nurse, punk karaoke singer, LGBT support group organizer, ladies who insisted their elderly dogs would bond with my cats, and really tall men who hit their heads on the short bathroom ceiling. Friends expected that I would go with the pastry chef (her specialty is lemon bars), however I selected the hospitality supervisor at the Westin Hotel. She’s delightful, quiet, and most important, under 5’ 6”. Decades ago I shared a place in Washington DC where the middle-aged owner had post-it signs everywhere saying “Abdul is coming.” I never knew if it was religious conviction or she was reminding herself to pick up a guy at the airport. Let’s hope I’m not quite as bizarre, now that the roles are reversed.

Helping with the early stage memory loss support group is fascinating and occasionally tough. I observed how the social worker handled a group discussion about terminal illness; I learned about grace and coping strategies. Afterwards the facilitator told me that some of the volunteers wanted to work with young children to get lifecycle balance, was I interested? Hell, no, hyperactive kids would send me over the edge. Instead, I’m interviewing seniors who have joined the local aging-in-place community organization to assess their needs. Currently there are lots of wonderful services, including transportation, home repair, and gardening (all of which I need, but I don’t qualify - yet). Interestingly, survey respondents are mentioning healthcare advocacy, particularly assistance with insurance decisions and medical care, as something they want. Little did I realize that this mini-focus group would validate my future career path; finding a job may be right under my nose.

Yesterday my neighbor and I checked out an estate sale around the corner, where an elderly lady had recently died. It was an old house with whirligig animals that were hand carved and painted by her deceased husband. Flying high on decaying fence posts, they reminded me of the carpentry my father did a while back. Woodworking was one of his better skills, along with making animal balloons. I love folk art, and I took home two pieces for repair and rescue (Road Runner and Wylie Coyote). Feeling nostalgic, I mentioned it to Dad today, thinking he might relate. He was so excited and thanked me for giving these pieces new life. Then he had to rush off to watch the competitive basketball tournament put on by his facility (independent living and assisted living staff duke it out in the parking lot).

Lots of seemingly random events are coming together to make me confident that I’m choosing my own right path. I’m enjoying the transition.

Taxes, Death and Other Certainties

With a nod to Ben Franklin’s famous quote, tax season is the universal equalizing experience. In my father’s case, this was the first time he didn’t prepare his own paperwork. After my badgering him for oh, about 5 years, he finally agreed to have a trained expert do the returns. Since AARP sponsors a free consulting service for seniors at the local library, we went there for what I thought would be a quick chat. I gathered every possible piece of paper in his apartment that said 1099 or DIV or “important for your taxes.” To his credit, he had attempted to calculate everything on an Excel spreadsheet. However, as we found out today, it’s essential to enter commas, not periods – for instance, the amount of $34,000 is different from $34.00.

We got a lucky break with the tax specialist. She is a nice Jewish girl originally from New York, and her own mother lived at Dad’s retirement village for 21 years. She calmly organized the multiple copies of the same statements, the mutilated records, and the documents with food stains. She asked Sid what his former profession was, he said “electrical engineer”, she smiled and said “oh I could tell.” Apparently all retired engineers make many copies – just in case, you know. She plugged all the data into the amazing government software, muttering a bit, and told us there was a glitch. The computer kept trying to add my mother, even though she’s out of the picture. I explained that Mom periodically shows up to mess with us; she probably wanted a piece of the action. Did the tax lady think this was nuts? Not at all. She shared that her dead mother turns the lights on and off in her home (note to Cindy – sound familiar?)

Two and a half hours later, we had final results that were quite shocking to me, but Dad took it all in stride. He still has money in the bank to pay his bills for at least a year. Also, if the residents go broke, rent is reduced to whatever income is available – some of the centenarians live there for free. After a recovery nap, off we went to a Purim celebration to have kosher cocktails and rattle noisemakers.

I already did my own taxes with TurboTax; now I can spend more time with my father. That’s a life refund, better than anything from the IRS.