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| ONE YEAR AGO TODAY, PHEEBS AND I WERE OUT FOR ONE OF OUR MANY AFTERNOON WALKS, AND IN THE MORNING, RICHARD AND I HAD BEEN OUT FOR ONE OF OUR MANY THURSDAY MORNING COFFEE AND MUFFIN DRIVES |
A steady rain this morning left water puddles in the driveway, so I knew it was going to be an inside day. In fact, I never even got out of my jammies. I caught up on my reading and actually made three phone calls. Now, making three phone calls wouldn't seem like much to most folks, but for a guy who normally might make three phone calls in six months (with the exception of my Friday night calls to Aunt Jean) it is truly a remarkable thing. My first call was to our internet provider, Eastlink, to see if I could get myself a more affordable internet/TV package. And, I did. Phoned Kelly's daughter Sabra in Cambridge and we had ourselves a nice chat about her Mom. And my third call was to Woodsy, in Stratford. Oh, wait a minute, Woodsy called me. But for me to be on the phone with three different people in one day is nothing short of amazing. I could hardly believe it was who did all that, but it did leave me a warm feeling of accomplishment..........Now, for something very different in my post for a change. It is not often that I find things of interest while scrolling through Facebook, but the following story did catch my attention. Whether it's true or not matters little. It is the story's simple human content in this age of chaotic madness, distortions of truth, bitterness, violence, and hatred, that I found so enlightening, encouraging, and heartwarming. It gives me hope that maybe one day........yes, maybe even one day.
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My name is Eleanor Vance. I am seventy-three years old. And last April, I committed what my son—a very successful lawyer who uses words like "fiduciary duty"—called "the single most irresponsible act of senior defiance" he had ever witnessed.
I told him to send me a bill for the advice.
I moved into the drafty, 300-square-foot apartment above it.
My husband, Frank, was a good man. He smelled like sawdust and motor oil, and he believed in three things: God, the Cleveland Browns, and balancing his checkbook. When he died of a heart attack two years ago, the silence he left behind was deafening.
My life became a beige, quiet loop. Coffee. The hum of the dishwasher. The 6 o'clock news. Repeat. The house, once full of noise and the smell of Frank's flannel shirts, just felt… empty. The walls didn't echo; they just absorbed all sound. I felt like I was becoming a ghost in my own home.
My son, Mark, meant well. He started leaving brochures on my kitchen counter. "Whispering Pines." "Golden Horizons." Places with pastel-colored walls, organized bingo nights, and staff who spoke in that overly bright, slow voice reserved for toddlers and the elderly.
Mark said, "Mom, you need to be practical. You can’t be alone in that big house. Sell it, move to Florida. I’ve found a beautiful, secure condo. You can rest."
I told him, "Mark, darling, I've been 'resting' for two years. It's the most exhausting thing I've ever done."
The "act of defiance" happened on a Tuesday. I was driving downtown, past the empty storefronts that lined Main Street—ghosts of a time before the big-box stores and online giants took over. I saw a handwritten sign, taped to the window of "The Turning Page," the last real bookstore in town.
It didn't say "Help Wanted." It said, "Everything Must Go. Closing Sale."
I parked.
I walked in. The place smelled of paper dust, old glue, and coffee gone stale. A young man in his late twenties, with paint on his jeans and the kind of deep exhaustion I recognized, was staring at a stack of red-stamped envelopes.
"We're closing on the 30th, ma'am," he said, not looking up. "Everything's half off."
"Why are you closing?" I asked.
He finally looked at me and laughed, a short, bitter sound. "Why do you think? My father left me this place. He loved books. I love books. But love doesn't pay the heating bill, and it definitely doesn't pay the property taxes."
I looked at the envelopes in his hand. "You're holding your invoices upside down," I said.
He blinked. "I'm Alex."
"I'm Eleanor. I was an accountant for forty-five years. I balanced the books for the old paper mill before it shut down. You're trying to do this all in your head, aren't you?"
He blushed. "I'm... not great with numbers."
"I am," I said. I looked around the chaotic, beautiful shop. I looked up at the ceiling. "Is that an apartment up there?"
Alex nodded. "Storage. It's a mess. Leaky roof."
I took a deep breath. "Here's the deal, Alex. I have X amount of dollars from the sale of my house. It's not enough to save you, but it's enough to stop the bleeding. I will be your partner. I will fix these books. I will run the register. I will paint. In exchange, I live upstairs, rent-free. We give it six months."
Alex looked at me like I was insane. He was right.
That night, I called my son.
"Mom, you what?" The line crackled with his disbelief. "You liquidated your annuity? To buy a bookstore? Mom, that's a dying industry! That is your nest egg! I could have you declared incompetent for this!"
"Then who would balance your new partner's books, dear?" I asked calmly. "I have to go. I'm learning how to use a caulk gun." I hung up.
The first month was hell. The roof did leak. My apartment was cold. I spent twelve hours a day organizing forty years of cluttered inventory and building a real accounting system. Alex, it turned out, was a brilliant curator of books but had been trading rare editions for store credit instead of cash.
"You can't pay the electric company in poetry, Alex," I told him, gently.
But slowly, things started to change.
I open the shop at 9 a.m. now. I brew a pot of strong coffee—none of that flavored-water nonsense. I sweep the front step.
The regulars started to drift back in. Old Mr. Henderson, a retired history professor, comes in every morning. We sit at the front table. We talk about the local high school's new quarterback, why the new highway bypass is ruining downtown, and yes, sometimes we whisper about what we saw on the news.
In this shop, a man in a "Make America Great Again" hat and a college girl with a "Pride" tote bag can stand side-by-side, browsing the mystery section. They may not talk, but they are peaceful. The books, it seems, are a ceasefire.
My son still didn't get it. "Mom, you're 73! You're working harder than I am! Don't you want to relax?"
"Honey," I told him, "I'm not working. I'm living."
Last month, we hosted our first "Silent Reading Night." We put out free coffee and cookies. Twenty people showed up. They just sat among the shelves, in comfortable, shared silence, and read. A young soldier from the local base, probably no older than nineteen, sat in the history section, his boots on the floor, reading a fantasy novel. He looked peaceful for the first time.
One evening, a high-school student left a note on the counter. It was scribbled on a napkin.
"Thank you, Mrs. Vance. You make me less afraid of getting old."
I taped that note to the cash register.
The "social media" thing was Alex's idea. "Eleanor," he said one day, "you're always telling stories about these old books. Let me film you."
"I will do no such thing. I am not a Kardashian," I said.
He filmed me anyway.
He caught me holding a battered 1950s copy of The Grapes of Wrath. "You see this one?" I said, tapping the cover. "People think it's just a sad book. It's not. It's an angry book. It's about people who had everything taken from them, but they refused to stop being people. They refused to be disposable."
Alex posted the 60-second video on that TikTok thing, and then on Facebook.
I woke up the next morning, and Alex was waiting for me with a wild look in his eyes. "Eleanor," he said, "you went viral."
The video had three million views.
We now have 150,000 followers. They call me "The Main Street Reader." We get orders from all over the country. People don't just want the books; they want our books, the ones I talk about. They drive in from two states away.
Our store isn't just surviving. It's the only place on Main Street that's hiring.
Mark, my son, called me last week. He sounded different.
"Mom," he said, "I just... I saw your video. The one about East of Eden." He paused. "It was really good. You know, my firm is looking to do some non-profit work. Maybe for, you know, community literacy. If your... company... ever needed any pro-bono legal advice..."
I smiled. "I'll think about it, dear. I have to go. We're hosting a resume-writing workshop for the guys who just got laid off from the auto-parts plant."
Do I miss my old house? No.
In that house, the silence was an ending.
Here, the silence is full of stories, waiting to be opened.
The lesson isn't just that starting over doesn't have an age limit.
The lesson is that purpose doesn't have an expiration date.
In a world that is so quick to tell us to "rest," to move aside, to become invisible... remember this:
We are not disposable just because our hair turns gray.
We are not liabilities.
We are libraries. Every wrinkle, every memory, every book we've ever read, is a story.
You don't stop growing when you grow old. You just grow wiser.
Don't let anyone close your book before you're finished.
Go out and start the next chapter.
Al's Music Box:: Till Then by The Mills Brothers.
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| I SURE MISS OUR AFTERNOON WALKS |
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| AND OUR MORNING DRIVESS |
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Q: How many divorced men does it take to change a lightbulb?
A: None, because they never get the house!
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Bob Hill and his new wife, Betty, were vacationing in Europe, as it happens, near Transylvania. They were driving in a rental car along a rather deserted highway. It was late, and raining very hard. Bob could barely see 20 feet in front of the car. Suddenly the car skids out of control! Bob attempts to control the car, but to no avail! The car swerves and smashes into a tree. Moments later, Bob shakes his head to clear the fog. Dazed, he looks over at the passenger seat and sees his wife unconscious, with her head bleeding! Despite the rain and unfamiliar countryside, Bob knows he has to carry her to the nearest phone. He carefully picks his wife up and begins trudging down the road. After a short while, he sees a light. He heads towards the light, which is coming from an old, large castle-looking house. He approaches the door and knocks. A minute passes. A small, hunched man opens the door. Bob immediately blurts, "Hello, my name is Bob Hill, and this is my wife, Betty. We've been in a terrible accident, and my wife has been seriously hurt. Can I please use your phone??" "I'm sorry," replied the hunchback, "but we don't have a phone. My master is a Doctor; come in, and I will get him!" Bob brings his wife in. An elegant man comes down the stairs. "I'm afraid my assistant may have misled you. I am not a medical doctor; I am a scientist. However, it is many miles to the nearest clinic, and I have had a basic medical training. I will see what I can do. Igor, bring them down to the laboratory." With that, Igor picks up Betty and carries her downstairs, with Bob following closely. Igor places Betty on a table in the lab. Bob collapses from exhaustion and his own injuries, so Igor places Bob on an adjoining table. After a brief examination, Igor's master looks worried. "Things are serious, Igor. Prepare a transfusion." Igor and his master work feverishly, but to no avail. Bob and Betty Hill are no more. The Hills' deaths upset Igor's master greatly. Wearily, he climbs the steps to his conservatory, which houses his grand piano. For it is here that he has always found solace. He begins to play, and a stirring, almost haunting, melody fills the house. Meanwhile, Igor is still in the lab tidying up. His eyes catch movement, and he notices the fingers on Betty's hand twitch. Stunned, he watches as Bob's arm begins to rise! He is further amazed as Betty sits straight up! Unable to contain himself, he dashes up the stairs to the conservatory. He bursts in and shouts to his master: "Master, Master! ... The Hills are alive with the sound of music!.
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Al's Doggy World
Meanings::
