Bored, part one

After nearly two months in the nursing home, Leta became restless. The food was acceptable, the attending sisters pleasant, the priest friendly (even though she wasn’t Roman Catholic), the common areas clean and well-kept and her bed comfortable. While walking the floors and through the garden every day provided some exercise, she needed something productive to do. She was only 78 years old, and although she knew her health wasn’t going to remain strong forever, she also wasn’t about to lie down and wait for the grim reaper.

Her boredom became apparent one Monday afternoon when her roommate Gladys returned from her eighth hair appointment since Leta moved in. The woman, only 70, had been a resident for two years now. As she had developed severe Depression living on her own, Gladys had moved in for the round-the-clock observation. She was pleasant enough, and the two of them became friendly. However, Gladys spent hours watching television in the main lounge, which Leta had no interest in. And more significantly, on that Monday afternoon, when Gladys trooped into their room with an excited flush to share with Leta her revised hairdo—which Leta thought looked exactly like the previous seven—Leta knew that getting her hair styled could not be the highlight of her week.

In fact, she didn’t even know where the hair salon was in the building, since she had no need for it. Her daughter took her bi-weekly to the same hairdresser she had been using since her husband died nearly ten years earlier. But Leta was more curious about the tangled mess of fabric Gladys called a rag doll. The other woman didn’t have this when she left earlier in the afternoon.

“Oh, Leta,” Gladys said with a knowing sigh, “you are so sheltered. The home has a craftshop right next to the beauty parlor. Everything there is made by old folks like us. Haven’t you read any of the bulletin boards? They have classes all the time.”

“Taught by whom?” Leta inquired, examining the doll with a grimace.  She could tell almost immediately that the construction was loose and the stitching liable to unravel.

“I don’t know,” Gladys answered. “Some ladies from St. Ignatius or one of the sisters, I guess.”

The next morning, Leta marched into Mother Paul’s office. Mother Paul was the executive director of the center, one of the Little Sisters of the Poor, the order that owned and managed the residence. She had armed herself previously with the bulletin announcements of classes and three samples of shoddy sewing from the craft shop.

“Mother Paul,” she said decisively. “I have an offer!”

To Be Continued.