The May Fair With Barbara

Two pieces of business, before we get to the main event. First, the solution to last week's puzzle is posted here. My apologies to all who spent the week second-guessing their answers. Second, let me toot the horn for my sister Ellen, whose marvelous new podcast explores the challenge of supporting aging parents, and of aging in general. For myself, I'm not much of a 'helper,' and I'm pretty sure I can beat the devil at a crossroads kazoo contest. For the rest of you, I recommend it. Search for 'Age Old Questions' at your chosen podcast service, or visit ageoldquestions.org.

Listening to that series, I had what I thought was a very good idea. We haven't run a Senior Living feature on my watch, and I thought what a nice thing it would be to give the front page to Pioneer Valley Senior Center's annual May Fair. I would have asked the genie do the story, since he's the only one of us who'd qualify for the Senior Steak at Denny's, but he had to jet off on business, which left me holding the bag. I asked the staff if they knew an active elder I could tag along with. Bernice mentioned her grandmother, Barbara, but thought a May Fair wasn't exactly Barbara's style. Nonetheless, I got her number at the Lively Creek Home, and, winning a bet with Bernice, had zero trouble getting myself a date.

Barbara Bandstand's one condition was that we take her car, a powder-white '68 Coupe de Ville, long as an avalanche, and as hard to redirect. I'd never driven such a ponderous automobile. No matter. I was in the drivers seat just half a block before Barbara had me pull over so she could fix her lipstick. When I did, she yanked the keys from the ignition, and said, "Move over, hon', it's my turn."

"Barbara," I reminded her, "Bernice was very clear about that."

"I haven't had a cigarette in fifteen years," Barbara told me calmly. "I don't drink anymore, either. Gave it up. Now, you can sit on the passenger side like a nice young man, or on the curb like a hobo, but I will be driving my goddamn car."

It's not hard to see why Barbara's family took her keys. She drives by the law of averages. On average, her car is centered in the lane. On average, she stops on the mark. It's her standard deviation that'll get you. Thank the mean, we made it to the fair.

The Pioneer Valley Senior Center did a good job organizing the May Fair. People seemed to be enjoying themselves. The bocce court was popular, the May Queen smiled at everybody, and the ice cream cart was mobbed the whole time. Barbara and I had our first strong disagreement, not long after we arrived. The thing about Barbara is you can't tell when her mind is inventing things, and when she's putting you on. She still insists there was a wheelbarrow race. In a strict sense, I agree, but it certainly wasn't sanctioned. Either way, there was a nurse nearby, and I've been assurred that my concussion, if it was a concussion, was probably minor.

After that, I lost track of Barbara. She said she was at the lawnmower drag, but I think she went on across the street, to the Pewter Penny for an hour. She didn't seem tipsy when she found me, true to her word, but she smelled of booze and sugar. I'd guess she was surfing the tables, helping herself to garnishes from unattended drinks. She found me, later, on the lawn, getting a shuffleboard lesson.

"Did you see the Maypole Dance?" she butted in. "Some kinda sick joke, if you ask me."

"I didn't," I said. Didn't ask, that is. I had seen the Maypole Dance, and Barbara had a point. It was like one of those number slide puzzles, watching them untangle all the walkers.

"You gonna win me something at the ring toss?" Barbara pressed me.

"What do I get if I win?" I wanted to know.

"Depends," she said.

I knew better than to say, "Depends on what?" but I wasn't totally sure she was kidding. One of the prizes for the fishing game was a jar of denture cream, so it wouldn't have been that far fetched if adult diapers were among the choices.

As it turns out, I'm no good at the ring toss. While I was trying, again and again, to salvage my reputation, Barbara won two plush ducks, a bottle of antacid, and a venus fly trap. She gave me one of the ducks, out of pity, I think, and that hurt worse than anything. Then she wandered off again. I thought I might be on my own a while, but she came back shortly after, catching me still trying to win the ring toss, and clamped her hand around my arm.

"That was fun," she informed me. "We're going."

"Soon as I win one," I told her.

"No," she said, "now is fine. There may be a situation."

"What kind of situation," I asked, suspicious, while she frog marched me back to the car.

"Status symbols," she said, leaving me unsure if she was answering the question. "You know what gets you status, at places like mine, quicker than anything else?"

"No," I said, "tell me."

"Grandkid pictures. Paper ones—they're still the gold standard. Nobody has time to watch you unlock your phone. But our eyes aren't so good, you know, so you could have pictures of any old kid, and nobody would know better."

"Barbara," I asked her slowly, "Were you selling grandkid photos, back there?"

"Maybe," she said. The way she moved the mirror, checking to make sure no one had followed us, made me suspicious there was something deeper at play.

"Is that not allowed?" I asked. "Is there an injunction on photographs?"

I saw the fair organizer fly into the parking lot at a run. Barbara saw, too, and put the car in gear. She beat him to the exit, leaving long streaks of rubber on the asphault behind us.

"Barbara," I said, "what aren't you telling me?"

She smiled, giving an uncharacteristic amount of attention to the road. "Status symbols," she said again. "Grandkid photos are status symbols, but you know what counts as currency?"

"What does?"

"There's nothing wrong with grandkid photos," she said. "But, really, you can put LSD on just about anything."

And that's a long way of explaining why I'm learning how to fish. I'll need something to do when I'm old. I can't play bocce worth a damn, and I'm no longer welcome at the Senior Center.