You're A Real Southern Girl

I grew up in Southern Illinois. It is a lot more of a small town, southern upbringing than a lot of you city slickers are aware of. I also, somewhat, grew up in a nursing home. My grandmother, my father's mom, had advanced Alzheimer's when I was born, and I only ever knew her in a nursing home, in a bed, unable to speak. As I child, I didn't know that this was something that people were scared of. That people had a hard time being around the elderly. It became second nature to me, because I visited her often, and since the elderly tend to LOVE it when a young child is around, they all liked seeing me. So I spent time talking to people there. Side note: Today, there was a 3-year old visiting a relative in the nursing home. I asked his father if I could bring him into the day room to chat with all of the residents in there, cause I know how much being around children makes their day. He graciously said, "yes" and let his son come hang out with us for a bit. They were on cloud nine. Especially Kentucky. She said she has "42 great grandchildren". She doesn't, but I will let her think she does.

As a result of spending a lot of time in a nursing home, after my grandmother passed away, my trips there did not end. I remember asking my parents to take me to the home to visit other people after she was gone. I still have a vivid memory of standing by the front door, with a stack of paper on the front table and a pen in my hand. I was writing, "God loves you" on several sheets of paper over and over again to hand out to the residents when I got there. No one told me to do this, it was just what came naturally.

I also remember, as a young girl, having a neighbor who lived about a half a block away, who I visited often. I don't recall how I met her, how I started visiting her, or anything about how it came about. If I were to take a guess, it was probably due to one of the many times I just went around to all of my neighbors doors, knocking on them and introducing myself. I would go around my neighborhood just talking to people. It was a safe, small town, during a time when this behavior was relatively harmless. Some neighbors appreciated me calling, others not so much. However, this woman loved it. All I remember about her was that she lived in a huge two story house all by herself. She was elderly, but I am not sure how old. I just remember thinking of her as a grandmother's age. I would go in and visit with her and talk with her for long periods of time. I also remember, that she used to give me clothes and jewelry for my costume chest. In fact, one of the dresses she gave me ended up being the dress that I wore as a costume in the first two plays I was ever in! (5th and 6th grade, the junior college down the street, Our Town and Christmas Carol). It looks as if my love for the elderly and my love of performing crossed over many years before now.

In high school, I started doing volunteer work to get scholarships for college. The first summer, I volunteered at a daycare and a nursing home. By the next summer, I just chose the nursing home. Screaming children pooping themselves, not for me. Screaming old people pooping themselves, my destiny!

A lot of years passed between this volunteer gig and my job now. A lot of things got in the way. I went to college and I partied. I got married, and well, we all know that was a dumb thing for me to do. I moved to Chicago, which was a great decision, but got off to a rocky start. I worked in some jobs when I got here that just weren't for me. But, then I got divorced! Wahoo!! Then I started doing comedy! Wahoo!! Then I left my shitty job! Wahoo!! Then I got this job! Wahoo!!

The job that I just left behind had a lot of wonderful people at it (and some really not so wonderful people.) And I am still in contact with some people there that will always be very important to me, who encouraged me to follow my dreams, and support me to this day. I love them. But there were some people there, who I am ashamed to say, made me question who I was as a person. I let them make me feel like I was not a valuable employee, that I was too emotional and sensitive, and that there was just something wrong with me. I began to feel that I was supposed to be a robot that kept my head down and shed it's personality. In this world, I have encountered very few groups of people that I can't fit in with, but this was one of them: accountants. No offense to my accountant friends, I love you. But an office full of this personality type and just one of me, well I have never felt more isolated.

I recall a day that I was presented a "Happy Divorce Cake" by my sweet, wonderful, and amazing co-workers at the tax firm. It was an amazing gesture that brought me to tears. Of course that immediately made them uncomfortable! Haha! Then I asked, "if any of them would hug me?" Nope! Hugs are not something they did. No display of emotions. Which is fine. That is who they are. I accept them for this, and I still love them for being there for me in other ways. (After all they helped me with retirement planning, doing my taxes, and giving free financial advise). We need all kinds in this world. But when I tell anyone else that story, their jaws drop. "They refused to hug you?!"  I now have a job where all I do all fucking day long is hug people. Pardon my french, but dammit it feels good. I hug people. I hold their hands. I kiss their foreheads. I tell them jokes. I tell them I love them. That is my job! After a failed marriage and a failed attempt at administrative work, I finally found a population of people who want my love just as much as I want to give it!

Ok! Enough about me! You want to hear cute old people stories don't you!?

I walk into the room this morning and make eye contact with Kentucky, she gets a big smile on her face and exclaims, "There's my sweet girl!" We shoulder shimmy, and I sit down next to her. I asked her if she "remembered my name?" For the very first time, today, she did.

"How you feelin?" I asked Kentucky as I held her hand and rubbed her fingers.
Her muffled response sounded like she said, "rub my fingers".
So I responded, "I am rubbing your fingers,but how are you feeling?"
And she replied with the same response again, but with more conviction.
So I said the same thing again.
And she said it again with even more persuasion. She loudly proclaimed,  "WITH my fingers!" I am "feeling with my fingers!"
Ah, she was making a wonderful joke with one of her funny sayings, and I was completely missing it. These folks keep me on my toes.

Then I said to Kentucky, "Well what are you thinking about?"
She replied, "you can't handle it. It's too bad."
I responded, "sure I can! Try me!"
We went back and forth like this for awhile, and then she remarked, "If it makes me shiver, then it will break you up!"
I questioned, "Is it about a boy?" And she giggled.
Then I asked, "is it about the 'Intern'?"
Her response was simply,  "yes."
I said, "what about the intern?"
And she blushed and grinned and said, "tryin to do the hoochie koochie," and just chuckled.

I gathered them all to sit around the table with me. I read the newspaper to them. Usually half of them will fall asleep during this. Today, I read a story about a father taking his pre-school aged daughter camping. I looked up and all eyes were open, sparkling, and on me. They were all smiling and enjoying the story. In fact, the 97-year old woman, who always falls asleep and can barely talk, was looking at me with big puppy dog eyes and an unwavering stare. I call her "Lorna Doone", because those are the shortbread cookies she eats for a snack every single day. So I started a discussion about this article. They were ALL very talkative and responsive. I asked them if they had ever been camping. Turns out not one of them had. Not even Kentucky. So I proceeded to tell them about my camping experiences. Which they ate up! They loved it. They were all smiles and I had all eyes and ears. No one sleeping on me today!

Then I turned on some music and started dancing around the room. At which point, one of the residents said, "There you go again! Dancing! We love you." I said, "I love you too."

Then I asked "Patsy" to dance with me. She is one of the few who isn't in a wheelchair. She was shy and coy about it at first, but I assured her that I have seen her dancing before, and she is great at it! Everyone watched us and smiled and clapped. Then I went over and danced with "The Queen of Junk Mail" in her wheelchair. She was hesitant at first, because she didn't think it was possible in her wheelchair, but I insisted and made it work. Then I asked another resident to dance. She is completely hunched over, but uses a walker instead of a wheelchair. She thought about it for a minute, and then decided it was a good idea. We held hands and very very slowly waltzed around. I told her she was a great dancer. She informed me that she studied at the Arthur Murray Dance School for many years. I'll call her "Ms. Murray" because of her dancing. She says she loves to dance, she loves to sing, and she loves art. Well so do I! We often sing together, and now we can dance together.

After we were done dancing, I sat down next to a sweet old black man who is from southeast Missouri. An upbeat 50's song came on and he said, "This music makes me feel so young. It makes me feel like I am picking cotton again. White people do it too, not just black people. We all got along and worked together just fine. They loved me. I was very popular cause I was very good looking. I am not good looking anymore cause i am old." I kid you not, these are the exact words that came out of his mouth. It was really wonderful and inspiring. I told him, "You are still good lookin'!"

He then started joking that I probably don't know anything about the south. To which I responded in my southern twang that I can bring out just as easily as I can drink water, "I'm from Southern Illinois. The Carbondale area. I used to go fishing and camping with my grandpa. My grandma used to fry that fish and make home made rolls and fried okre. I used to swim in creeks and take hayrides." Then a resident sitting with us looked at me and said, "Wow! You're a real southern girl!" Then "Missouri" said, "Shoot! You DO know about the south. I can't tell you nothin'! You tellin' me somethin'!" Then he turned to the other resident and said, "She southern just like me!"

Then it was time to read Kentucky's newspaper to her. She subscribes to the 4-page county newspaper from back home that is filled with the misspelled, run-on sentence ramblings of 80-year old women writing about what their neighbors had for breakfast yesterday. (Not unlike the misspelled, run-on ramblings in this blog). I was reading an obnoxious "fire and brimstone, you are destined for hell" Christian article to her. To be fair, I am a Christian. I am spiritual, and not really religious. I like to keep an open mind, and I rarely, if ever, criticize other people's religious beliefs. But this article was a bit much. I thought she was enjoying it as I read it to her. After all, this is where she comes from. This is her hometown newspaper. And she was just quietly listening. Afterwards, I asked her what she thought of it. She proclaimed it was "CRAP." I asked why she thought that and she said, "Cause anybody can write anything they want in there and they dont have to know what they are talking about." Ah, my fellow southern gal, dreamin' of the "hoochie koochie" and spouting off about the bullshit article, you are a real southern girl!