There was a soft knock on the door and my mother hopped up from her chair. I had just popped in for a quick visit on my way to nowhere that morning. “That must be the cleaning lady,” she said as she leapt for the door. For a woman of 84, she does a lot of hopping and leaping. Better than any of her children – and most of her grandchildren, for that matter. She’s sort of like the Energizer Bunny on speed.

So I was introduced to Joan, one of the cleaning ladies at the complex my parents now call home. “She does a pretty good job,” remarked my mom later. That meant that she had spent the morning cleaning, before Joan even came in. I know she couldn’t bear it if the cleaning lady actually found any dirt in her home. My mom’s just like that. Few people clean to her specifications, so she helps them out beforehand. God would have a tough time meeting those specs.

While Jill did her cleaning thing, Mom and I decided to take a walk. My folks live in a beautiful complex in Nashua, one of those 55 and over retirement communities, where most of the residents are really 65 and over – and some are way over. My Dad calls the place “The Hotel” because it looks like one. And it has every amenity you could want, for which, of course you pay dearly – and my folks are hardly rich. But they are dear.

One of the little amenities they have at “The Hotel” is “The Store.” It isn’t Macy’s. Not even a Seven Eleven. It’s just a cheery little room, about 20 feet square, furnished with two tables- nicely decorated for the season – as well as several comfy chairs, including a rocking chair. You can but milk and bread. Laundry and cleaning items. Stationery supplies, stamps, greeting cards. A few craft items. Stuff like that. Probably some Efferdent, a box of Depends. Everything is stocked in nice hutches, open for display. Fanciest little store in town.

It was to The Store that my mom and I walked that morning, to spend some quality time in that popular room on the second floor overlooking the front lobby. It’s a great location from which the curious can watch those who come and go. And they sure do.

My dad happened to be working his shift at that time in The Store. Like a number of residents, he volunteers an hour a week to oversee this bustling center of activity. And there he sat at one of the decorated tables, as we walked in, carefully guarding the strong box that serves as their cash register, with all of probably thirty bucks in it. He was chatting away with Ted, another septuagenarian with time on his hands. Neither one of them disturbed MaryEva who spent the next half hour sitting at one of the tables, carefully sifting through the stack of greeting cards until she found the perfect one. Once she had finished, another woman sifted through the remaining pile. She picked out three cards in less than a minute. No doubt, a world record in that store.

We plunked ourselves down at the main table and I was introduced to everyone who came through the door. On the side, my mother gave me a little dirt on each of them. Nothing shocking; just idiosyncrasies. She’s big on idiosyncrasies.

Before long, a spry couple literally waltzed through the door. They are part of a dance show that routinely cycles through all the retirement communities in the area. We made introductions all around and then the woman pulled her husband’s glasses off his head, plopped them on her own nose, and began digging into that pile of greeting cards. Apparently this would be a big day for the greeting card section. Having found what they needed, they waltzed out again. Good thing they weren’t line dancers.

Two ladies soon shuffled in and wiped out the fresh tomato supply. Each of them took one from the fancy basket on our table. That signaled the end of this year’s crop, which comes from little individual gardens that some residents tend out back.

Then Dave came in, all energetic. The only guy I saw that brisk morning who wore shorts. So what that they were pulled halfway up his chest…some guys like to wear their pants that way. He had a great head of pure white hair and sported one of those little beards like a leprechaun. For all I know, Dave may be a leprechaun. He helped us wile away the last half hour of my dad’s shift, with proud tales of his poetry and storytelling abilities. He lamented however, that he wished he could write. I told him I felt his pain.

All throughout our one-hour visit to The Store, a guy named Fred kept shuffling back and forth past the door and peering in at all of us, the steady thump of his walker reminding me, with each passing, that “somebody was watching us…” He just nodded each time we made eye contact.

The folks and I finally left, as Manfred came in for the next one-hour shift. Dad had raked in about twelve bucks for the cause. A fruitful hour. On the way out, we ran into mom’s good friend – Joan, as she was introduced to me. Except my dad reminded us that her name was really Grace. So mom ran back to her and apologized. We all have that memory lapse once in awhile, don’t we?

My parents walked me to the front lobby and as I briefly glanced up at The Store, there was Fred still shuffling by the door, checking everyone out and nodding. We said our goodbyes and my folks headed upstairs to their apartment, no doubt to inspect the cleaning lady’s work.

I love visiting my parents. There’s so much going on in their community- like hanging out at The Store – that no one has time for retirement. I hope they always make the most of it, those young whippersnappers…

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