Source: Slog
Link: http://slog.thestranger.com/2008/02/old_people_god_damn_them
Title: "Save the Old Folks!", by Adrian Ryan
Date: February 28, 2008
Adrian Ryan is all worked up to a tizzy. This, as readers of The Stranger are well-aware, is nothing new. But it's a curious story he posted at Slog, and one that invites a common question: What is our duty to our neighbors?
I'll spare you the bit about fiddling her knob (er ... I mean—damn it!), the Christmas joke, and the Marlee Matlin bit in order to skip to the issue:
'Tis a curious concern: he did a good deed, yet feels like a complete shit because he did not do enough. Yet, to the other, what is enough? Is it really his business whether or not she is in a home, or has home care? Is it just a matter of life as it is? Is it just her life, or what happens if a fireman dies should she have such problems again and the house burns down? Or should he be more proactive? As one commenter put it: "Look, all I'm saying is: shotgun."
Oh, and watch out for the readers' discussion about aged vagina. Talk about extraneous ....
Link: http://slog.thestranger.com/2008/02/old_people_god_damn_them
Title: "Save the Old Folks!", by Adrian Ryan
Date: February 28, 2008
Adrian Ryan is all worked up to a tizzy. This, as readers of The Stranger are well-aware, is nothing new. But it's a curious story he posted at Slog, and one that invites a common question: What is our duty to our neighbors?
So I was walking somewhere on Capitol Hill, late, on one of those streets dotted with old mansions, and, from the doorway of one of said mansions, the littlest, frailest old woman that ever old womaned was trying to flag me down. Not me, specifically, but anybody. She was as big as a box kite, rather hysterical, and waving a dishrag. Jesus. I knew somebody must be dead in there.
And somebody was. A few people actually. But that was much earlier.
What had happened was she couldn’t turn her oven off. That was it.
I rushed up to see, oh, dear, what could the matter be, and she rushed me into her ginormous mansion, through her rather exquisitely appointed hallway, past the closed French doors of the drawing and television rooms, into her charming little kitchen, where she kept calling me “Kiddo”, and introduced me to the stove. It was an old-ish stove, one of the knobs had gone wonky, she could no longer figure out how to manage the off switch, the burner was red hot, and she was beside her little old self. “Oh, kiddo, I was so scared, I couldn’t go to bed, oh, kiddo, what if there was a fire, I was so so so scared, no one would stop, everybody just walked by, you were the only one, oh, kiddo!”
Frankly, she was damn lucky. The street was a fucking freakshow.
(Ryan)
I'll spare you the bit about fiddling her knob (er ... I mean—damn it!), the Christmas joke, and the Marlee Matlin bit in order to skip to the issue:
I made sure she was relatively calm and that she understood the stove, and I wrote down my cell number, in case. I let myself out and locked her door behind me, and now I feel like a total turd.
This old woman cannot be left alone, let’s be frank. I don’t know how she’s survived this long. I’m going to force myself to go back there later to check on her…but…my hand to God, she is going to plotz.
(ibid)
'Tis a curious concern: he did a good deed, yet feels like a complete shit because he did not do enough. Yet, to the other, what is enough? Is it really his business whether or not she is in a home, or has home care? Is it just a matter of life as it is? Is it just her life, or what happens if a fireman dies should she have such problems again and the house burns down? Or should he be more proactive? As one commenter put it: "Look, all I'm saying is: shotgun."
Oh, and watch out for the readers' discussion about aged vagina. Talk about extraneous ....