Sunday, January 1, 2012

A Poignant New Year's Day Memory



I started my first position as an Executive Director on New Years Day, 2000.  I say I started on New Years Day, despite it’s being a holiday, because it was the day I arrived at my new community.   I chose to begin that day so I had time to move my miniature Schnauzer Sadie and me into an apartment.  We were relocating from Tampa to Tallahassee, and we intended to live on the property until we found our own place to live.

I was thrilled and excited to begin this new adventure. Previously, I had been working in sales and marketing for an assisted living community, but I had just finished graduate school with a M.S. in Managerial Leadership.  I was anxious to put my newly earned management skills to the test.

On that particular New Year’s Day, Sadie and I arrived at the community in the late afternoon.  Our car was packed to the roof with our personal belongings.  I was anxious to get situated, so I borrowed a grocery cart, that the residents had confiscated from a local grocery store, in order to cut down on the number of trips it would take to unload our things. I piled it high with clothes and over-stuffed boxes. I then balanced Sadie under one arm and wheeled the rickety cart into the building and onto the first floor elevator. 

The previous administration assigned us an apartment on the second floor. When we reached our destination, the elevator doors opened for a moment, but stubbornly slammed closed before I could get the cart moved into the hallway.   I clenched my teeth as I held my unhappy dog and struggled to maneuver the cart over the elevator threshold without being crushed by the weight of the elevator doors.  I hadn’t noticed anyone in the hallway, so I was quite surprised when I heard a cheerful, “Oh my!  Good afternoon.  You must be our new executive director.  We’ve been expecting you.”  And then, like magic, the elevator doors opened, and released me from their clenching grip.

I looked up to see a most beautiful lady pressing the elevator button, who appeared to me as if she had wings and a halo.  Dressed impeccably in an ivory high collared, long –sleeved, satin blouse and winter white wool slacks, I was impressed with her stunning appearance.  Her face was wrinkled gently by 88 years of living, but her bone structure retained its model-like profile.  Her hair was spun white gold and was twisted regally around her head.

Embarrassed by my soiled jeans and wrinkled cotton sweater, I was finally able to steer the cart into the hallway. The woman stood waiting, beckoning me to follow her. “My name is Kathryn. Come, let me show you the way to your room.” She walked a step ahead of me, confidently supporting her weight on her aluminum walker.  Slowly, I followed her down the hallway, pushing my wobbly cart with one hand and squeezing my squirming Schnauzer in the other.

We stopped in front of a room with no nameplate.  “Joe’s been busy redecorating this room for you, “ she said with a sweet southern drawl.  “These hallways can be confusing,” she continued.  “If you get lost, I’m in the apartment beside you.  Feel free to knock.  Looks like you have an exciting New Year ahead of you.  I’ll be happy to help in any way I can.”

“Thank you,” I said gratefully.  As she turned toward her own room, I marveled at her erect posture and her genteel femininity.  “What a lovely women I thought to myself.”

Kathryn and I became fast friends in a very short time.  Every day she would pop her head around the door to my office.  She was always clothed in a tasteful, coordinated outfit; her make-up freshly applied and her hair resembling a French coiffure.   “Hi Karen,” she would say happily.  “Hope you are having a good day.”  On other days, when we both had time, she came in and sat in the chair facing my desk.   During those times she shared her intimate personal stories.

Kathryn had come to the community with her husband.  They had lived in Live Oak, a small town east of Tallahassee.  Typically southern, they were a gentle, quiet couple.  Her husband, Powell, had owned a thriving nursery in Live Oak, and they had raised their three children there.  She remembered a good and loving relationship. 

The couple came to assisted living because Powell, several years older than Kathryn, was declining physically after a series of heart ailments.  He was only at the community six months before he had his fatal heart attack.  Her sadness at losing her life’s partner was apparent to me, but she never allowed that sadness to penetrate her positive upbeat attitude. 

Kathryn was an active resident.  She assisted me with the management of the community country store, and supported the members of the Resident’s Council with their worthwhile projects.  She also joined the greeting committee to introduce new residents to the community.  Her daughter and son-in-law attended our parties, took residents on outings, and also became an integral part of our community family.

The day we lost Kathryn, I was soulfully saddened.  In our numerous conversations, we often teased about my first day and the comical introduction that immediately cemented our friendship.  Since then, on New Year’s Day, I always remember Kathryn; her love and enthusiasm inspired me to become a more effective Executive Director. 


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