Listening and learning

I had just landed in Los Angeles after visiting my Mom for a few days. As the plane taxied to the gate I turned on my phone and called my Mom in New York to let her know that I had arrived safely.

“Did you hear? That little colored boy died,” she said. (She was 99 and still used “colored,” a word battle I would never win.)

“What little colored boy?” I asked.

“The singer.”

“What singer?”

“The one who used to sing with his brothers.”

I thought a moment. Just for kicks I asked, “Michael Jackson?”

“Yes, that’s him!”

“Michael Jackson is dead?”

“Yes.”

“Really?” 

“That’s what I said,” she said with just a hint of snippiness.

I made a mental note to call my sister right away to let her know that our dear mother, who seemed just fine when I said goodbye eight hours earlier, was in rapid mental decline.

And then the man next to me, who was on his phone, practically screamed, “Oh, my God, Michael Jackson is dead.” Throughout the cabin I could hear Michael Jackson's name.

Fast forward to a few years ago. I arrived at the nursing home in time for dinner with Martin and asked how his day had gone.

“We had lobster for lunch.”

Sure, you did, I thought, turning away so that he could not see me roll my eyes.

Playing along, I asked, “Was it good?”

“The best,” he said.

Fast forward another few months. By now Martin is terrified of spoons and forks coming toward his face and so I am feeding him meals by hand. Nothing unusual about the lunch offering this day: tuna salad on a roll, a banana, cookies for dessert and milk and cranberry juice.  

I’m about to pinch some tuna salad to place in his mouth and dontcha know I look down and it’s not tuna. You guessed it. It’s a dang lobstah roll!

Today's lesson? They’re not idiots, but sometimes we sure can be.