Huh Wee!

      The title seems contrived.  It is not.  It is what happens every day in my life. Kind of like the eleventh commandment.  For I must hurry to finish the work God has planned for me to do.  I shall speak for those who cannot or will not speak for themselves. Old ladies and old men!  I am completely at liberty to speak for them for I am eighty-nine years old. 
      Now please do not get your feathers ruffled or project my opening statement into a terrorist threat.  I just want you to listen to me for what I say is direct, not sugar-coated but bottom-line honest.  And it just might help us both as we continue to go foot sloggin' on this incredible journey we call Life.
     Now, not often do you find someone writing from within the very compound on which they live, but I derive all of my material from living with 180 other widows or widowers.  It is called a retirement living facility for adults and although we do not have to pay an entrance fee nor scrape together funds to secure our admission we simply pay a monthly rental.  Which includes well-thought out extras designed to keep us oldsters relatively contented.
      The community rooms strain to portray a homey welcome and the staff act as though we are the best thing since sliced bread.  Everybody smiles a lot.  Why? There is simply nothing more of merit to do.  And that seems like a very unhappy statement. Perhaps that is why they ask us the same question over and over.
       "How do you like it here?"
       "It's okay, I guess."
       The answer is hesitant for we do not want to send our children to plum the depths of despair over why Mother seems eternally dissatisfied with life.  They must wonder.  Good Heavens!  She has electricity paid for, her sidewalks plowed, one lovely dinner every day, cleaning services every other week, what indeed does she want?  
       Could it be that some of us find the living a bit artificial within the confines of a facility such as this?  Could it be that we long to see a face unwrinkled by all the years of living?  Is it possible that we are becoming anesthetized by the artificial environment? Perhaps one of the reasons that we can no longer separate fact from fiction is that there is little we can call reality anymore in our lives.
      Many of us are ready and waiting to go and meet our loved ones in Heaven.  I, too, want to ask God how much longer,  but I don't think He would like it if I even hinted that once in a while I get tired of living.  It's like sitting at the dinner table trustingly waiting to be served and the hostess dumps a double helping of mashed potatoes on your dinner table.  And you don't even like potatoes.
      But, doesn't matter someone's got to eat them.