Hey there, friends. You may have wondered where I’ve been since it seems like I’ve taken a blogging break. Actually, I’ve been walking around, waiting for inspiration to strike, trying not to despair about the world, and working on my novel. It’s a fun place to be, that novel, full of laughter and weirdness and hope. But I’ve missed interacting with you, so I thought I’d introduce you to an old friend of mine.

I started writing about Miss Minnie (not her real name) back in 2009. I fell in love with her on my Meals on Wheels route. When I hear about cuts to Meals on Wheels and Medicaid, she’s one of the people who come to mind.

I’m only sharing Parts One and Two of her story today, but don’t worry. It has a happy-ish ending. I’ll post the rest next week, unless inspiration finally comes through. I promise not to leave you and Miss Minnie handing.

Part One, September 2009

Miss Minnie Pond’s house is the last stop on my Meals on Wheels route, which is a good thing since she usually has plenty to talk about. She’s almost 90 years old, white-headed with a bit of a beard, and she walks with a walker from time to time. Some days she wears a bow in her hair and other days she answers the door with her shirt unbuttoned, a boob hanging out. I ask her if she’s trying to put on a show and we laugh.

Usually she tells me the latest news about the sneaky lady at the Department of Social Services and how that woman is conspiring to make her leave her home of more than fifty years. And then she tells me how SHE ISN’T MOVING no matter what anyone says. “My mama and daddy’s long gone, so I don’t have to listen to NOBODY!” She can get along fine, she says, even though we both know that I help her write checks when it’s time to pay bills, and back in July she needed me to come in and plug in her fan because she couldn’t see the outlets and was burning up in the heat.

Part Two, March 2010

Minnie’s life seems to be getting harder by the day. I keep reminding myself that she’s nearly blind. She can’t see how filthy her house is–the trash scattered on the floor, the grime. She uses a walker all the time now, and the last time I came, I noticed she had a chamber pot by her bed. She must empty it often because there isn’t an odor.

Once a month, we get out her bills and she points to her purse. (She keeps it at the end of her bed, along with an open box of cereal for snacking.) I find her wallet and write the checks. The first time I did it, I signed her name for her, and boy, she gave me a talking to! Now I put my thumb by the signature line. She feels for it, and then carefully writes her name. Usually her shaky signature floats up the check towards the date line, but the bank always accepts it.

Last month when we did her bills, she’d put them in a bill holder on the wall. When I pulled them out of the holder, a dozen bugs showered down on us. I guess they were nesting in there, feeding on the glue of the envelopes. I tried not to react too much. Miss Minnie didn’t see them, so I just flicked them off of both of us, wrote her checks, and drove straight to report what happened, flicking at imaginary bugs the entire way. No one should live like that. She can’t see well enough to take care of herself and her home without help, and she has no family nearby. Hopefully her social worker will get her some help so she can stay in her home. We’ll see.

I hope I haven’t ruined your breakfast or lunch. I tell her story because there are so many Miss Minnie’s out there, barely making it, invisible to everyone else. I’m sure I’m not telling you anything new. You may love a Miss Minnie yourself.

I’m thankful for her courage and stubbornness and persistence–and for the way she makes my life richer.