In the film version of L. Frank Baum children’s novel , The Wizard of Oz, each of Dorothy’s imagined friends has a burning desire, a craving: they all yearn for some thing (“If I Only Had A….) “The Scarecrow” wants a brain. The “Tin Man” wants a heart. The “Lion” deviates from the anatomical wish list – he wants something amorphous: courage.
Indeed! They are back. Not en masse though. It’s early in the back-to-college year, so our beloved town is not inundated yet. The university students return in dribbles, like a leaky water faucet. And many live across from my ALF (Assisted Living Facility). What’s a wheelchairer to do when crossing the street?
I had just finished reading an interesting story on Yahoo News, and went to breakfast in the dining room anxious to tell my table mate, George, about it. After I prefaced my retelling, I couldn’t remember the story I wanted to tell. Yet . . .
I’m one of 40 or so elders – I could say seniors – equally nice sounding, but without the gravitas - or mature– nah, that’s for movie ratings – or, more scornfully, geezers, or wickedly demeaning – old farts. I guess you could say all-of-the-above. After decades of achievements and societal contributions, and professional accomplishments (and being a bit of a pompous ass ) with a smidgen of pride, I prefer the politically correct, solemn, and dignified first word choice - who reside in an Assisted Living Facility (ALF.).
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