Viera’s Vignette
I
first noticed her straw hat lying on a chair next to the table in the corner of
the coffee shop. Not knowing whom
it belonged to, nor really caring, I walked past it and sat down with my friend
to drink my coffee and chat. While
we were intently discussing the future of the baby boomers, my attention was
diverted. Out of the corner of my
eye, I could see an older women leaning on a cane and struggling to balance a
large cup of coffee. She was
maneuvering her way through the line of people waiting and heading to the table
where the hat sat waiting.
I
turned my head to see that the woman was quite thin, but not frail. She didn’t seem confident, but she
didn’t appear timid. She was
nicely dressed in a mid length camel brown skirt and a collared matching blouse
with sleeves rolled to the elbows.
A multi colored striped cotton belt was tied in a knot, just below her
waist. She had brown hair,
streaked heavily with bands of dull gray that she had twisted loosely into a
bun at the back of her neck. The
woman was somewhat attractive, not pretty, but she conveyed the presence of a
handsome European matriarch. I
guessed her to be in her early eighties.
As she wound her way through the tables,
her mouth was moving as if she were engaged in a conversation, but she was
alone, and no one was nearby to hear what she said. One may have described her as “strange,” had they not taken
into account her age. She plopped in the chair next to the hat, and gave a deep
sigh of relief.
My friend paused mid sentence, when she
realized I was no longer listening to her. “I couldn’t help but notice that older women at the
table near the window. She’s here
alone,” I said hoping that explained my lack of commitment to our
conversation. My friend turned her
head to see the woman I was studying.
We had been engaged in a conversation concerning our neglected senior
population, and we silently shared the irony of my unexpected diversion.
The
two of us studied the woman. We
saw her begin to stir her coffee, then stand, reach for her cup, grab her cane,
and walk slowly back to the condiments bar. She poured some half and half into her cup and made her way
painstakingly back to the table.
Again, she looked relieved to be safely seated.
We
continued to watch her. We were
not being rude, but we were fascinated by her determination to maintain an air
of self-sufficiency.
We
saw her pull out a clear bag of cookies that were tucked away in her
purse. Her head turned to the
tables next to her, first right, then left to see if anyone noticed. We felt sure she was unaware of us from
across the room. She quickly
opened the zip lock bag and pulled out three very plain wafers. After patting the plastic bag flat, she
placed her cookies one by one beside her cardboard cup. She then leaned back, smiled to
herself, and began to nibble at her cookies and sip her coffee. Meanwhile, she
continued to carry on a conversation with whomever she imagined was with her.
My
friend and I returned to our conversation and forgot about her for at least a
half an hour. Then as I was
walking to the refuse can to throw in our empty cups, I saw that the woman was
also getting ready to leave. She
eased herself up by using her cane as support. Then she reached to retrieve her straw hat. She leaned her cane on the edge of the
table, and with both hands, placed the hat on her head. She pulled it precisely
to the center of her forehead and tugged the brim to tilt it slightly to one
side. She grabbed her cane and
with careful strategic steps, she left.
My
friend and I stood outside for several minutes finishing our conversation about
seniors and about being seniors.
We bemoaned the fact that as we get older men don’t turn their heads any
more, and others just walk past us as if we didn’t exist. We have reached a stage in our lives
when we feel almost invisible.
With a sigh of “Oh well, it
is what it is,” we hugged and parted.
When
I pulled from my parking space, I was surprised to see the same older woman
from the coffee shop. She was
walking back and forth; her head rotating from side to side as if she were a
spectator at a tennis match. One
hand was pressing the top of her straw hat to keep the wind from whisking it
from her head, and the other was struggling to balance her wobbling cane. She was frowning and talking to
herself. Considering her wild
gestures and the frantic look on her face, I guessed that she had lost her car.
I
slowly pulled up beside her. I
rolled down my window, and I yelled, “Have you lost your car?” “Yes,” she cried. I could see that she
was on the verge of tears.
“Get in. I’ll help you find it.”
She
hesitated, then after a second or two, she nervously reached for the door
handle. “This is just awful…this
is just so awful,” she repeated anxiously.
We
drove down all the aisles where she thought she had parked. She described her car - a dark gray
Volkswagen. She repeatedly rattled
off the license numbers hoping the information would help us. After three circles around the parking
lot, we did not find her car.
“Let’s go to the other side,” I suggested.
“No.
I’m positive I parked near this door,” she argued as she pointed to the front
of the coffee shop.
“I
don’t see it here. You’d still be
near the door on the other side, I coaxed, but at a different angle.”
I
turned toward the east side of the lot.
We drove up one aisle, and as we drove down another I knew immediately
we had hit the Jack Pot. To our right was the 2008 gunmetal gray Volkswagen.
“Is
that it?”
Tears
welled in her eyes. “Yes. Oh, yes.”
After
she thanked me again and again, “ I said, “My name is Karen.”
“My
name is Viera,” she said with a heavy Germanic accent. “Thank you, Karen. You are very kind.”
She
opened the door and got out. I
waited until I was sure she had started the ignition, and then I waved and
drove away. I couldn’t help
but wonder how many others had seen her wandering and searching for her car, or
to them, like most seniors, had she been invisible?
