I was leaving the assisted living place we moved my mom into yesterday, and stopped by one of the big day rooms by the entrance; volunteers were setting up for a book giveaway – one thousand books, free to anyone who wanted one. I had seen them earlier on one of my multiple trips between mom’s new apartment, the center office, and my car outside, and they encouraged me to have my mom (an avid reader) come down – a good way to ease into her to new surroundings.
As I was leaving, the woman I had spoken to earlier waved at me, and asked if my mother would be coming down. I went in, picked up our chat from earlier, all the while she was lifting stacks of books out of a Rubbermaid tub. She told me the books were all donated, free to anyone, and I should help myself. I laughingly told her I was a high school English teacher and writer, and had way too many books already. Thanking her nonetheless, I was getting ready to leave, just as she sat one more stack of books on the table in front of me.
“Oh my God” I said, startling her a bit. The top book on the stack was a book of Bill Holm essays, ‘The Music of Failure’ – one of his I did not already have. “Bill Holm was one of my professors in college! A huge influence on me.”
(Seventeen-years my senior, his typical, thunderous greeting for 46-year-old me was ‘Nice to have another old fart in class’!) He could be appropriately (or sometimes not) bombastic at any moment.
On the road for nearly a month now, twelve hundred miles from New Orleans, trying to help my mother navigate this new phase of her life, from independence to assisted living, has been a roller coaster; ups, downs, loop-de-loops, wild turns- all really fast. Even though things have gone about as smoothly as possible for the situation, it is has been stressful for all concerned and at times and more than a few times you think ‘get me off this ride’. Hence a recent spate of Bill–like rants; some serious, some in mock-jest, some crazed takes on the vagaries of the universe. Some just to blow off steam at nothing or nobody in particular. I just stood there looking at the book and I started to laugh. The volunteer said, “Go ahead. Take it. Really something that it’s a guy you know, huh”?
Yeah, a guy I knew.
Of all places to find him again: a very nice, assisted-living place in upscale, suburban Minneapolis. Bill would surely have something to say about corporate, commercialized aging. I can only imagine eloquent tangents. I was still laughing and shaking my head in bemusement as I thanked the woman and headed for my car, the sudden gift of a book of essays to read tonight. I am not at all sure if this is the ghost of Bill telling me to ‘rock on’ or ‘chill out’ – or maybe, ‘keep it up, you old fart’.
I’m just grateful he stopped to say ‘hello’.