Amazing

“Had not my wife died, I wouldn’t be talking to you.”
I said that to a widow-friend in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool. She’s older than me — and her husband died 26 years ago.
“Not to keep her from being jealous,” I added; “but because she allowed me to be antisocial. She said she liked me; it seemed she did. I could therefore avoid contact with other women.
Combine that with my childhood — ‘No pretty girl will ever talk to you’ — and I was antisocial.”
It was Saturday afternoon, the time I go to the YMCA’s swimming-pool on my own. I do aquatic balance-training in that pool, two days per week, plus a third day on my own.
“Since she died I’ve tried socializing with other women, and what a pleasant surprise that has become. If my wife were still alive, I’d still be the antisocial person I was.
I could bore you to tears with stories,” I said.
“I don’t think so,” she smiled.
I didn’t hit her with my childhood: a “sob-story,” I call it.
Months ago I talked to a complete stranger I’ll never see again. She wanted to know why I came from DE to Rochester 52 years ago. “To get away from my parents,” I said.
“Interesting,” she said. “Were they Catholic?”
“No, Bible-thumping Baptists,” I answered.
“Tell me more,” she said; “but only if it doesn’t hurt.”
My pool-friend just had major surgery at Wilmot Cancer Center (“will-MOTT;” as in Mott’s applesauce), which treated my wife.
“Wanna hear a Wilmot story?” I asked.
“Sure!”
(This is so surprising.)
“I knew there was NO WAY my wife could handle that Strong Hospital parking-garage, so the one who always took her was ME.
‘How come you always know where the car is?’ my wife would ask.
‘Because I made it a point to know where I parked the car. Third floor, up the ramp, THERE’S THE CAR.’
‘How come you know to turn right outta this garage?’
‘Because that’s where the sun is. I wanna head south, toward the sun. South is home.’
‘What if it’s raining?’ she’d ask.
‘I know where the sun is supposed to be!’ I’d say.”
My pool-friend laughed. I love to see her laugh. She lights up the pool.
“Wanna hear a Thompson story?” I asked.
“Sure.”
(Again, “No lady will ever listen to you!” And “Thompson” is Thompson Hospital in Canandaigua.)
“Sometimes we went to Thompson,” I said.
“‘Theatrics,’ I’d tell her. ‘Lemme get you a wheelchair. They won’t take you seriously unless you come in a wheelchair.’
She’d start walking toward the Emergency-Room. She was as ornery as me,” I added.
Paul Manafort, President Trump’s campaign-chairman, pleading whatever, arrived to his sentencing in a wheelchair.
As sick as my wife? I doubt it. ‘Theatrics.’”
By now my pool-friend was laughing continuously — lighting up all-and-sundry.
“Familiar with GPS?” I asked. “That GPS-lady better agree with me, or I ain’t listenin’.”
One time I’m headed out the West Ave. Plaza lot, and ‘Turn right onto Greig Terrace.’
‘What you been smoking, girl?’ I asked. ‘You got me turnin’ into a one-way street the wrong way.’
BAM; ‘I’m drivin’ honey, not you!’”
I pointed to my head. “The GPS is always in here. That GPS-lady better agree, or I’m shuttin’ her off.
Once I was driving back into northern DE from south Jersey, and I haven’t been in northern DE in years. It also was night time = pitch-dark. I had my GPS on, but construction detours were everywhere. I got lost. I was on Route 13 south of Wilmington.
‘What’s that airport doing on my right?’ I asked myself. It was pitch-dark, but I could tell it was Wilmington’s airport. Runway lights only.
‘That airport should be on my left. I’m headed for MD; I should be headed for PA.’
By now the GPS-lady was going ballistic; I shut her off. The Keed took over. I got turned around, and returned to my brother’s north of Wilmington without GPS.”
My pool-friend related how they were gonna do robotic surgery if they could, but might hafta go non-robotic.
“You damn well better not wake me up to ask!” she told her doctor.
“Sounds like yer ornery yourself,” I commented.
What’s amazing to me is conversations like this are becoming ordinary. With ladies of all people! “No lady will ever talk to you.” My parents and Sunday-School Superintendent neighbor spin in their graves. My lady-friends love it, and I ain’t some drooling geezer.
“I hope we meet again,” I said.
“Me too,” she smiled.
This lady is the same one I made my eat-out offer to weeks ago. I said nothing this time, but probably will some day.

• My Sunday-School Superintendent neighbor is the infamous Hilda Q. Walton, who I’ve blogged many times.