EDITOR’S NOTE: This column is the second part of two.
On Christmas Eve I headed to my parents’ farm downstate, anxious to be with my family. Christmas on the farm was special. As I left town, I stopped for gas near the nursing home. Below the cash register was a rack of candy bars.
“Give me a couple of those Snickers, would you please?”
I parked, went in the side door and up the back stairs. It was after dinner but before lights out. I went to Ted’s room. He was still in his chair, slumped to one side, sleeping. His Christmas card was tacked to an empty bulletin board.
I turned on Ted’s bedside lamp. It was too hot in there, radiator cooking, air not moving. Behind it all was the faint smell of urine. Christmas Eve in the nursing home.
“Wake up Ted I’ve got something for you.”
I gave him a minute to get used to the light before straightening him up.
“Ted, I brought you a present, but you got to cooperate. It’s not on your diet and I don’t want you talking to your buddies about this. But you’re a guy who can keep his mouth shut, right?”
Ted may have gotten the joke, but I couldn’t tell. When I took a Snickers out of my coat pocket his eyes lit up.
“OK Ted, you’re going to eat this slowly, so you don’t choke. You understand?”
When Ted realized what was about to happen, he literally began to drool. I got tissues off his nightstand and wiped his chin. Then I cut a piece off the candy bar with my pocketknife and put it on his tray. His left hand flashed out. The candy was in his mouth instantly. He looked at me as if I was going to dig it out of his mouth as I had done so often before with other things.
“Chew that good and swallow it before I give you more.”
He did. I cut off another piece. We repeated that five times with the first candy bar.
“You feel OK Ted?”
Ted nodded enthusiastically.
“You don’t feel sick?”
Ted shook his head vigorously in the negative. I wiped his chin with the Kleenex again.
I took out the second candy bar. We did it again.
“This is the last piece, Ted.”
I laid the final chunk of Snickers on his tray. Ted didn’t take it.
“What are you doing, Ted?”
He stared at me.
“It’s yours, Ted.”
Ted brought his left hand up, pointed at the candy, and pointed to me.
“What the hell Ted?”
He pointed at the candy again and then at me.
Then I understood. The guy who would eat the envelope his only Christmas card came in was sharing his candy bar with me.
I ate it. Ted smiled at me as I chewed the Snickers, his big old eyes bright.
I believe people talk with their eyes. I think Ted said thanks. And Merry Christmas.
“You’re welcome, Ted. Merry Christmas to you too.”
I quit the nursing home in the spring. Ted died that fall. He choked on ham sandwiches. I suspect someone didn’t watch the snack cart closely enough. I will never forget Ted, or the kindness in his eyes. If we let it, Christmas brings out the best in all of us.
- Dave McClure lives in Ottawa. He is a long-retired director of a local private agency. He is also a blogger. You can read more of Dave at Daveintheshack.blogger.com