Nobody Special

There's something to be said for showing up every day for well over 80 years. The real work of living is in the details.

Miss Bessie taught school for all her adult life and never missed a single day of class. She raised eight children, much of the time on her earnings alone, cared for elderly parents, supported and loved a disabled husband, and went to church every Sunday. She fought off cancer, the diabetes that took her left eye, the rheumatoid arthritis that crippled her hands. When her health finally forced her to retire at 74 and she had to accommodate her dialysis, she took a job in a food kitchen two days a week and volunteered at the senior center the other three. She stood a mere five foot, one inch and weighed no more than a hundred pounds, she walked with a cane and carried a small Bible in her purse and she sometimes left home without her teeth, her store bought dentures having never fit quite properly and they often pained her gums. When she could no longer drive, she learned the bus schedules and routes, declaring that the free Medicaid transportation was meant for those truly in need, And besides, she said with a wink, They be so busy and overworked, bless their hearts, I'd be late everywhere I went. At my age, time is a gift from the good Lord and I cain't afford to be wastin' it.

The arthritis in her knees grew worse and the steps to the bus became more than she could manage so she turned to taxis, raiding her coin jars and paying the drivers in quarters and dimes and nickels, tipping only when she felt she could and never more than fifty cents. It's a burden, she told the doctor, but as long as I'm above ground I'm happy to carry it.

She passed 80, then 85 - seeming to grow smaller and more frail with each passing year. A walker replaced the cane after her second heart attack and she gave up the food kitchen and cut back at the senior center, settling for two afternoons a week of nothing more strenuous than reading stories and helping to write letters. Her children worried, her husband fussed, but she was determined to keep on. I ain't nobody special, I heard her snap at her son one afternoon, Least I can do is be of use while I'm still able. But of course she was somebody special and the news of her death at 87 - a third and finally fatal heart attack in the middle of a Hemingway story at the senior center, one of her daughters told us - saddened us immeasurably.

My grandmother, who considered being of use essential to a life well lived, would've liked Miss Bessie and likely reminded me that we all have our own brand of uniqueness.

Without wearing any mask that we are conscious of, we have a special face for each friend.
Oliver Wendell Holmes