...works pretty well for me. I drove up to the city on Tuesday, with plans to spend the night and get an early start on Wed., hitching a ride to the airport to catch a mid-morning flight to NYC. There is a cozy sleeping place, quiet and comfortable, in the attic of the house on Eleanor Street. Often, over the years, there have been temporary residents who have lived there, people in various stages of transition. Staying for weeks, or months, then relocating to other quarters.
Currently vacant, providing me an excellent landing pad. A good night's sleep and launching pad for heading off to other places: visiting in SC, traveling on to TN. Or being let out in the pouring rain at Hartsfield International Airport for flinging myself into the wild blue yonder.
We laughingly talk about who will be my caregiver when I get to the point that one is needed. This may come under the heading of Black Humor, but given the facts of DNA and family history, there is a good chance I will eventually need assistance. With the natural process of aging, I know we are designed to have parts wear out. And expect to need someone to watch over me, or see that I have managed care. I have often said: 'Just put me someplace where I am kept clean and fed.'
My family has seen me, and participated in, providing care for family members in need over the years. I had the thought recently that the times I have provided that assistance has been the model for them doing likewise. I know they have opened doors and hearts to friends who find themselves in desperate straits on occasion. Willing to provide shelter, bed-and-bath, meals, a safe environment from which to gauge and consider, decide the best path for the future.
When the time comes that I will need to be taken in hand, kept from crossing against the light. Safely snatched from the path of the speeding buses in life, I believe they will be there. Providing guidance and . willing to do what is necessary to 'keep me clean and fed'.
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