A Book Club in the Nursing Home
In Aprons on a Clothesline Virginia goes to a nursing home very much like the nursing home where I live. It too is a wing of the small hospital in town and offers rehabilitative care after trauma such as a stroke.
I had met a nurse from our nursing home while shopping in town one day. She called the next day to tell me that they'd been reading my books and were nearing the end of the last book. "Would you consider surprising our residents by coming to read with us on our last day?"
How could I say no to that?
I'd gone to book clubs before. Usually everyone reads on their own, then gathers to talk about/critique the book. But this club was different. Volunteers come in to read to the residents for about forty-five minutes every day. No real discussion time, just quiet as one person reads to the rest.
I looked at the faces around the table. There were about fifteen residents there. Most were in wheelchairs; some seemed lost in their own world. I recognized Nancy, a woman from our church who'd lost her husband two years ago. She'd always reminded me of my dear mother-in-law, Rose. Same petite frame and short gray bob. Now Nancy was alone in the nursing home. She smiled at me and I waved back.
I read for a little while, then handed the book off the Marguerite, their usual reader. She read the book as it should've been. Her voice so like that of Virginia's in my mind's eye. I couldn't believe I'd written the words she so gracefully spoke. Heads nodded around the table. They laughed when Willie Biddle called Lillian's collection of stuff "crap." They grew silent when Willie explained to Bert that his twin brother couldn't take over the farm because he thought it was a right and not a privilege.
But what struck me the most was that I knew nothing compared to these people. Here I'd written a book about a widow in a nursing home after a stroke, but it was all make believe for me. For them it was their life. How humbling and what an honor that they would consider my offering worthwhile.
Traci
I had met a nurse from our nursing home while shopping in town one day. She called the next day to tell me that they'd been reading my books and were nearing the end of the last book. "Would you consider surprising our residents by coming to read with us on our last day?"
How could I say no to that?
I'd gone to book clubs before. Usually everyone reads on their own, then gathers to talk about/critique the book. But this club was different. Volunteers come in to read to the residents for about forty-five minutes every day. No real discussion time, just quiet as one person reads to the rest.
I looked at the faces around the table. There were about fifteen residents there. Most were in wheelchairs; some seemed lost in their own world. I recognized Nancy, a woman from our church who'd lost her husband two years ago. She'd always reminded me of my dear mother-in-law, Rose. Same petite frame and short gray bob. Now Nancy was alone in the nursing home. She smiled at me and I waved back.
I read for a little while, then handed the book off the Marguerite, their usual reader. She read the book as it should've been. Her voice so like that of Virginia's in my mind's eye. I couldn't believe I'd written the words she so gracefully spoke. Heads nodded around the table. They laughed when Willie Biddle called Lillian's collection of stuff "crap." They grew silent when Willie explained to Bert that his twin brother couldn't take over the farm because he thought it was a right and not a privilege.
But what struck me the most was that I knew nothing compared to these people. Here I'd written a book about a widow in a nursing home after a stroke, but it was all make believe for me. For them it was their life. How humbling and what an honor that they would consider my offering worthwhile.
Traci
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