John Creighton

January 31st, 2010 by John Creighton in Snapshots

Tags: Atwood, Neighbors

Miss Mary's House

“Help,” I heard a small voice float by on the breeze.

I paused. I looked. Nothing.

I continued to walk up the alley toward my house when I heard the whisper a second time, “Help.” Again, I looked in all directions.  The voice was close yet distant. I felt like Horton searching for a speck with Whos.

I could sense that someone needed help.  I felt it. But couldn’t tell where the cry was coming from.  I stood there, ears pricked, for what felt like long minutes.  No sound. The voice seemed to have disappeared.

I began to cross the street from the alley behind the Library and Citizen-Patriot toward my house.  I was almost to our front sidewalk when I heard a slightly stronger voice call out, “Help me.”  I spun around and saw a pair of eyes peering over the bottom of Miss Mary’s screen door.

Miss Mary lived directly across the street to the west in a simple two bedroom cottage.  She was in her 80’s I would guess.  She suffered from terrible osteoporosis.  She walked in a permanent stoop as if she was always looking for a dropped coin.  Yet Miss Mary was remarkably active.

Despite her physical limitations, Miss Mary faithfully kept her yard in spit-spot condition.  Her sister and brother-in-law would join her to help with lawn mowing.  But, Miss Mary often did this work herself.  I remember many times seeing her in the summer heat, prairie bonnet perched upon her head, slowly pushing her small electric mower.  The pride she took in maintaining her property set the standard for the neighborhood.

Miss Mary lived across the street from us for many years.  Most that I remember.  But I had never been in her house until this day.  And, I would never enter again.

When I saw the top of Miss Mary’s head, I dashed across the street.  I could see immediately that she was in considerable pain sprawled across the floor just inside her front door.  I stepped inside unsure how to help.

“Move me to the couch,” she whispered.

I put my hands underneath her shoulders and began to lift.  The moment I exerted upward pressure she groaned in extreme agony.  I stopped.  I tried to think.  I felt an ache of panic enter my stomach – what do I do?

Miss Mary said nothing.  It was clear that my failed attempt had taken a toll.

I repositioned myself in front and picked her up.  Miss Mary was small.  I can’t imagine she weighed more than 90 pounds.  At age 10 or 12, I weighed less.

With all my strength I hefted her off the ground.  Her cries made clear this was a bad idea.  But, I was desparate.  I had to get her to the couch.

I scooted the four steps from the front door to the couch, hoping not to fall on top of her, and deposited her frail frame upon the couch.  She sat there panting for what seemed an eternity.  I stood by in silence yet to speak since I entered.

Finally, she gasped, “Call my sister,” pointing feebly toward her phone.

Thankful to leave her side I went to the phone and saw a number on a small piece of paper taped to the formica counter top.  I dialed the four digits and was grateful when a woman answered.  I have little recollection of the conversation.  In a moment or two I was back at Miss Mary’s side.

“She’s coming,” I said.

Miss Mary nodded but said nothing.  She panted shallow breaths.  I stood.  At long last Miss Mary struggled to say, “You can go.”

I walked slowly to the door.  Once I was on her one-step porch I didn’t hesitate.  I sprinted as fast as I could across the street and through  my own front door.

I ran from room to room in my house to tell my mom what had just happened.  But, no one was home.

I went back to our dining room window and opened the closed shades just enough to keep watch on Miss Mary’s house.  I stood there until I saw a car pull up.  A weight lifted from my chest as I watched Miss Mary’s sister and brother-in-law hurry up her short walk and through the front door.

My responsibility was done.  Relief.  But, then, anxiety.  Had I done anything to hurt Miss Mary?

Over the years, I would help three more neighbors who had fallen in their homes.  In each case, I was glad to be of aid.  But my memories of Miss Mary still include doubt, even a bit or remorse.  The groans of pain continue to echo in a far corner of my mind.  It was the first time I had stood face-to-face with the cruel side of old age.

I learned a great deal from my octogenarian neighbors – passion for living, perseverance through pain, pride in maintaining property, taking interest in children 70 years younger.

As haunting a day as I had with Miss Mary I am grateful for the experience.  I learned about the tremendous strength and fragility that exists simultaneously within each of us.

Our Longmont neighborhood does not provide my children with the same opportunity I had to be in relationship with people many generations older.

I am sorry that my children are missing out.

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originally published January 28, 2009.