Tabatha Deans

Bringing Integrity to the Written Word

How old am I?

It’s been a very busy week at the donation center. Half a dozen people have either died or are moving into assisted living homes, so their entire estates have been brought to me one box, one bag, and one carload at a time. It’s emotional for me to hear their stories, and a little freaky to know I am the receiver of the belongings of the dead. I saw a lot of an elderly couple this week, they seemed angry and hesitant to talk. I assumed they had lost an elderly friend, but after the third load they told me their son had died an alcoholic. Each load brought more anger from them, as they delved deeper into the life of their dead son.
I also received the estate of a Mrs. Howard. I know this because I found a small photo album, with a worn cover and the words “Our Family” worn through on the front. Written inside the front cover, in jerky handwriting were these words. “these are my life’s treasures. If found please return. Ethel Howard.” There were several addresses written below, chronicling years of moving, ensuring her treasures would always find their way home.
Now they sat in my hands, destined for a second hand store for strangers to own. I slipped it in my backpack to take home to my little box of treasures.
Exhausted from my physical and emotional week, I was looking forward to having dinner with Robert and a much needed day off. I desperately needed some exercise and wanted to make the two mile walk from the train station, but I was also antsy and impatient, and walking seemed so slow. Then karma gifted me with a well used, but perfectly working scooter. The little silver ones that you ride like a skateboard, but they have handlebars to hold on to. I took it for a spin around the parking lot and decided it would be perfect for my commute home. It was all downhill to the train station, then a mix of uphill and downhill from there to Roberts.
I was a little nervous starting out, and wobbled for about a block until I found my balance, but marveled at how much faster it was to roll than walk. When I hit the crest of the hill and gained momentum going down, I had a brief moment of panic. The sidewalk was uneven, there were rocks and sticks in my way, and I didn’t know how to stop. I was making too good of time now, and dragged my foot along the sidewalk to slow myself down. But I was wearing my new running shoes and didn’t want to ruin them, so I stopped to better assess the situation. Then I noticed a brake over the back tire. It seemed that all I had to do was push down on it and it would regulate my speed. But I would have to balance on one foot while applying the brake with the other, and I doubted my limited ability.
I got back on and started slowly, and once I got up speed it was surprisingly easy to balance and keep my foot on the brake. By the time I reached the train I was feeling pretty good about my form. The terrain from the train to Roberts was glorious, and begged for speed. The sidewalks were smooth and flat, at least for the first part, and I flew across the pavement much, much faster than if I had been walking. When I reached Dayton StreetI threw caution to the wind. It was six blocks of smooth downhill sailing, and by the my form was impeccable. I kicked off and stood tall as I sped down the street, and began giggling crazily as I wondered what the passing cars might be thinking. I know scooters are so “yesterday” anyway, but what does a 45 year old woman whizzing by on one bring to mind?
I laughed and sang and felt like a kid all the way down the hill. Going back up the hill sucked, but then I got to go down another one. I reached Roberts house in nearly half the time it would have taken me to walk, and although my legs were sore and wobbly when I arrived, I felt far younger than I really am.

June 3, 2013 - Posted by | Uncategorized

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