Glimpses: Sundown Manor

By Linda van Omme

A retirement home is a unique society composed of a mixed bag of, usually elderly, human beings, who may, or may not, have chosen to live together under the same roof, and, many of whom, if they had their druthers, would not have chosen to ever be in such a place at all.

In North America, where aging is generally viewed as a deterioration of beauty, rather than as an accumulation of wisdom, they often consider this all rather a raw deal.

Glimpses: Sundown Manor gives you a “glimpse” into the lives of some of these people, and provides a light-hearted peek at how it is possible for such a diverse group of personalities to gradually become a “family”.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9781685625917

Linda van Omme

Linda van Omme (MacLeod) grew up on a farm on Prince Edward Island, with two sisters, great parents, a ‘rootin’-tootin’’ grandmother, and surrounded by a whole bunch of other relatives. She trained in Ontario, and worked as an Occupational Therapist, in retirement homes, hospitals, and in the community, for 42 years, all across Canada, with the “world population” who end up living in our wonderful country. She has three dear daughters; three dear sons-in-law; and four (almost five) sweet and almost-perfect grandchildren. Her husband, also a ‘dear’, is a now-retired ‘Rev’.

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About the Author

Linda van Omme (MacLeod) grew up on a farm on Prince Edward Island, with two sisters, great parents, a ‘rootin’-tootin’’ grandmother, and surrounded by a whole bunch of other relatives.

She trained in Ontario, and worked as an Occupational Therapist, in retirement homes, hospitals, and in the community, for 42 years, all across Canada, with the world population who end up living in our wonderful country.

She has three dear daughters; three dear sons-in-law; and four (almost five) sweet and almost-perfect grandchildren. Her husband, also a ‘dear’, is a now-retired ‘Rev’.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my family, who have always been there for me; to all the Elders across Canada who have tolerated me, taught me, and shared their stories and their lives with me; and to Michael ‘The Last Singer’.

Copyright Information ©

Linda van Omme 2023

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Van Omme, Linda

Glimpses: Sundown Manor

ISBN 9781685625900 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781685625917 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022923969

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

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Acknowledgment

I would like to thank Austin Macauley publishing for their kind assistance, and patience, in the process of getting this book into print.

Although this is absolutely a work of fiction, I have encountered a lot of people in my time so far on this earth, and some of their life stories, situations, or small things they have said or done remain stuck in my mind.

Sometimes I have translated these thoughts into writings, because I feel these things are important for others to think about or, sometimes, just because they are hilariously funny.

I have tried my best to preserve absolute anonymity and to treat any of these life bits, with the utmost respect.

Explanation

Most of the time, it’s just glimpses you get into people’s lives – on the street, at the grocery store, the book shop, the retirement home.

Sometimes you wish you knew how things turned out for them, that you could see just a little bit more…and sometimes you’re glad you can’t.

Sometimes people’s lives blend with yours, and they become more than just a snapshot in time to you.

But mostly, with most people, all you get are glimpses.

Synopsis

A Retirement Home is a unique society composed of a mixed bag of, usually elderly, human beings, who may or may not have ever chosen to live together under one roof, and, many of whom, if they had their druthers, would not have chosen to ever be in such a place at all.

In North America, where aging is generally seen as a deterioration of beauty, instead of as an accumulation of wisdom, they often consider this all rather a raw deal.

Glimpses: Sundown Manor gives you a ‘glimpse’ into the lives of some of these people, and provides a light-hearted peek at how it is possible for such a diverse group of personalities to gradually become a ‘family’.

Intro

That is the STUPIDEST name I ever heard!

(Pete had just been moved into Sundown Manor, and he was not real happy about it.)

‘Sundown Manor’…! Why don’t they just call it ‘End of the Line,’ and get it over with?

Could be worse…could be called ‘Curtains.’

Or ‘Pale Horse Café.’

Or ‘Sticky End.’

Personally I’d like ‘Last Chance Corral’…Kinda has a cowboy twang to it…I always wanted to be a cowboy.

Bit late now. They’d have to hire somebody to haul you on and off the horse.

Maybe ‘Kick the Bucket.’

‘Kick the Bucket’ what? Hotel?

No, ‘B’…It has to be something that starts with a ‘B’.

Why?

Just cuz. Have you no poetry in your soul?

‘Buster!’…that starts with a ‘B’! ‘Kick the Bucket Buster’!

What? You can’t call a building ‘Kick the Bucket Buster’!

What about ‘Last Time into the Breach’?

(There was an extended silence as they all thought on it.)

Nah…too long.

‘Peg out Pete’s’?

No way! That’s just cuz you want to see your name on a sign before you peg out!

Yeah, well, maybe…still…it’s not bad.

‘Belly Up Chateau.’

Chateau?

Yeah…gives it a continental flavor…n’est pas…mes amis?

Show off.

What about ‘Belly Up…to the Bar’?

Oh! Is it 4 o’clock already?

I saw a place called ‘The Veil’ one time.

Wooh…! Creepy.

"Hey…! I got one! Wait for it…Wait for it…Here it is:

‘Last Dance Hotel’! That’s pretty good, ay? Peppy like."

Or ‘The Promised Land.’

Yeah…and they could have two smaller signs, underneath, with arrows…one to ‘HEAVEN’ (I would go there), and one pointing to ‘HELL,’ for you.

What about ‘Purgatory’? Shouldn’t there be a sign for that too?

I never did get purgatory…kind of a fuzzy place, I always thought…I say go up or down, and get it done!

How about ‘Game’s End’? That’s kinda classy, don’t you think?

Well, It’s better than ‘The Glue Factory.’

Or ‘Davey Jones’ Locker.’

Nah. That’d be for one of those fancy-dancy seaside places. ‘Ocean Vista,’ and the like.

…with a view of Davey Jones’ Locker.

I don’t know.

(It was Mrs. Tillerman, perched in the last of the line of rocking chairs, on Sundown Manor’s front porch, her head bent over her knitting.) Mrs. Tillerman seemed to always be knitting on a scarf. They should have wondered why it wasn’t long enough to wrap around the entire building by now. They didn’t know she unravelled most of it every night, before she went to bed, then restarted it every morning. It was cheaper…and knitting helped her think.)

She raised her head, and gazed off into the distance.

The rest waited for her opinion…like acolytes expecting precious words from the local wise woman.

Mrs. Tillerman frowned…and cleared her throat…and they all held their breath.

Finally, she spoke: Is ‘stupidest’ even a word…or ‘rediculousest’?

She shrugged: I’ll have to Google it.

Then she smiled vaguely in their direction, as if she had just realized they were there…and went back to her knitting.

MT & T

Sundown Manor was not officially Pet Friendly, but the fact is that there were at least three regular guests with tails.

They arrived through Lucky Adem’s window every morning, Monday to Friday, before breakfast, and left, the same way, just before supper, to return to their regular homes, in time to enthusiastically greet their ‘official’

full-time-working owners.

It was an arrangement which seemed to work well for everyone involved.

‘Mike’ was a Heinz 57 terrier, with wiry off-white hair, and an impish, ‘devil may care’ personality, who looked healthy, but a bit less than well cared for.

‘Tillie’ and ‘Tailor’ were two matching, black, shorthaired pussycats, identical except for their personalities – Tillie was indiscriminately-loving, and Tailor aloof – and a white spot on the side of Tillie’s nose.

Every once in a while a third cat, a skittish long-haired orange, dubbed ‘Gingersnap’, dropped in. But she only came for the treats – she particularly liked licking the Cheezies – and then promptly left…so she has no further place in this tale.

The residents of Sundown Manor were all part of ‘the conspiracy of the invisible pets’, and covert conversations about the goings on of ‘MT&T’ were edged with secret glee, especially when ‘The High Uppy-ups’ came for an unannounced visit, and the three critters were quickly and quietly tucked under tables, skirts, and bed spreads…and told to Shush!

Mike, Tillie, and Tailor were very good at ‘shushing’.

The regular facility staff, seeing no harm, and a lot of good, in the pets, simply pretended they did not exist.

And so Mike, Tillie, and Tailor were, unofficially, adopted, as the four-legged division of Sundown Manor’s Volunteer Auxiliary, and, as you will see, they wove their way around the lives, as well as the furniture, of the residents, at Sundown Manor.

Pete

Pete’s family always said he was born fishing, and it was pretty close to the truth, considering the number of times his mother had had to haul him out of the creek, and forbid him, yet again, to lay on the edge, or wade into the precarious waters, trying to catch minnows, or pinfish, or even leaches, with his bare hands.

As he grew, the size of the fish he pursued grew with him, and he had fished all over the world, until age and debility slowed him down, and limited his territory…and now that he had moved into Sundown Manor, and was in a power wheelchair, he knew it was an impossible dream, and that his fishing days were over.

But Kiren, Sundown Manor’s occupational therapist and activity coordinator, was in the business of making dreams come true. She didn’t believe anything was impossible, and neither did the rest of the staff.

Every year they had at least one big fishing trip, organized and planned for many months in advance, and they were determined that, this year, Pete would be there.

This might be Pete’s last fishing trip – his chemo was causing more trouble than it was worth, and Pete and the Doc had agreed it was time to stop it – so Kiren was bent on making this fishing trip a great one.

On the river that day, it was as if Mother Nature herself came out, for Pete and his friends.

The show included everything from an eagle and an osprey ‘dog-fighting’ over a salmon, high in the sky above them…to a grizzly bear, just down river, far enough to not be a threat, who spent his own peaceful half-hour or so, fishing…to a swallowtail butterfly, that landed in front of Kiren on the sand, and, when Kiren knelt down and put out her hand, walked on to her finger, and Kiren took it over to each of the residents, sitting along the beach, so they could get a good, close-up, look at it, before she raised the butterfly high above her head, and it flew on its way.

It was Chinook salmon in the river that day. Big salmon. They sometimes grew to unbelievable sizes.

Kiren, with the hair-raising vision of one of her residents being dragged down the river by a monster from the depths, secretly prayed for her crew to catch some fish, but only smaller ones, please.

The whole community seemed determined to make this The best fishing trip ever!: The local hardware store – run by a family who had been interred during the war, and their land confiscated, because of their Japanese background…but bought by their neighbor for a dollar, and then sold back to them, for that same price, at the end of it – supplied the fishing licenses, all the gear, and three buckets of Kentucky Fried, for lunch; a group of the local fishermen brought down their boats, and gave ‘rides on the river’ which included the fishermen, some of whom were local Firemen/Paramedics, physically lifting Kiren’s people in and out of the boats; and a German tourist, with his dog, who came over every year just for the salmon run, instructing, assisting, and cheering them all on…as he had the year before…and the year before that.

Pete was in a regular wheelchair that day, with a seat belt on, parked in the gravel at the edge of the river, and when he suddenly gave a roar, a half dozen people spurted in his direction.

Kiren was the first there, and she grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and hung on, with the rest either holding on to her, bracing the wheelchair tires, or helping Pete with the pole while he reeled in.

It was a long fight, and when the whopping sixty-five-pound Chinook was finally up on the rocks, most of them collapsed on the ground around Pete’s wheelchair.

But Pete? Pete just sat there smiling…and smiling…and smiling, all the way back to Sundown Manor.

They had that salmon smoked and, for months, served it with some of their ‘U-Brew’ wine, on special occasions.

The others caught fish too, but it was Pete’s salmon made the front page of the Sundown Manor Times.

Even Mary, who couldn’t quite remember her own name at times, remembered that day, and, months later, when Kiren would ask: Remember the day we went fishing, Mary? her face would light up, and she would say: Yeah! That was the day Pete caught that great big fish!

Somebody Else’s Kid

Clay, I’d like you to meet your new foster parents, Mr. and Mrs. Montrose.

OH! Just look at her! Mr. and Mrs. Montrose twittered, A real little girl! and they both gave Clay a big hug. Mrs. Montrose gave her a big smucky kiss on the cheek too…While Clay tried frantically to remember all she knew about ‘real little girls’.

She giggled.

It wasn’t a very convincing giggle, but it was the best she could do…and she headed off, holding Mr. and Mrs. Montrose’s hands, and trying to skip, smile daintily, and flutter her eyelashes at each of them in turn.

The social worker watched glumly, rolled her eyes to the sky, and shook her head. Here we go again.

For three weeks Clay tried her very best to be ‘a real little girl’: She giggled, and pouted (quite prettily, she felt); She spent ages curling her hair, and trying on the pink frilly dresses Mrs. Montrose bought her; She tried to bake, and read books she thought ‘real little girls’ should like…and she hated every last minute of it.

She was awful at it too. The giggle sounded like something being choked; she drooled when she pouted; she burnt her hair with the curling iron; created quite uneatable baking, and even Mrs. Montrose had to recognize the fact that Clay’s bright red hair made pink a disaster.

Although the Montroses tried hard to hide their disappointment, Clay knew she had failed again…and she asked to go to a different family.

The Montroses had been the twelfth. An even dozen.

Who is that little girl? asked one of the mothers, sitting on the park bench not far from Clay, watching their children play.

Oh, she’s the McGregor’s kid…or is it the Montrose’s? No! I think she’s somebody else’s kid now.

And they dismissed her with a shake of their heads…and went on to talk of more important things.

Sometimes Clay lasted for weeks. A couple of times even for months. But every time, sooner or later, she turned into somebody else’s kid once again.

She did try so hard too, but there was always something.

Like with the Torwoods:

Oh, my DEAR! Your NAME! It sounds like a boy’s name, don’t you think? Do you really like it?

Clay shook her head. (She could see they didn’t like it.)

Would you like it if we called you your REAL name?

Oh YES! gushed Clay, (who had forgotten what her real name was).

All right…! Clarissa Anne!

(Clay cringed.)

Oh! How perfectly lovely! …and she gave them a rather stiff smile.

But there is one big problem about suddenly having a different name.

You don’t recognize yourself.

Carole Anne! Come here! It’s supper time! would go trilling down the street…and Clay would go racing into the kitchen, only to realize, too late, that it was the wrong kitchen, and she was the wrong kid.

Clarissa Anne! Where are you? would come echoing up into the tree house…and Clay would pay absolutely no attention whatsoever…except to wonder, in the back of her mind, where that Clarissa Anne had got to anyway?

It just didn’t work out.

Then there were the Spencers:

Unfortunately Mr. Spencer reminded Clay, just a bit too much, of Mr. Neil, the next-door neighbor when she lived at the McGregors, who was always trying to hug her, and get her to call him Uncle Cal…when he wasn’t even anyone’s uncle.

One day she had had enough, and she stomped good and hard on his sandaled foot, with her soccer shoes on.

It made a very satisfying crunch.

But the next day she wasn’t the McGregor’s kid anymore.

And the Raleys:

They were very musical. Even the dog howled in tune.

They suffered under the firm belief that EVERYONE was musical at heart; that they only had to Let it free!

Come along now Clay! Just TRY! We’ll start ‘Row Row Row Your Boat’, and you just join right in.

But when Clay let it free the music dribbled off into dead silence…except for the sort of yowling, screeching sounds which were Clay’s version of Row Row Row Your Boat.

Even the dog quietly left the room.

She came to the Tarnums at suppertime. The first…and last…supper at the Tarnums.

The tofu she managed, with a liberal dose of Ketchup, and she kind of liked the chewiness of the wild rice, but it was the zucchini that did it.

Clay TRIED to swallow it, but it kept coming up instead of going down, and the Tarnums gaped in horror as it appeared, for the third time, on Clay’s plate.

Clay looked desperately around at their shocked faces, gave everyone a sickly grin, and popped it back into her mouth. This time she chewed furiously, grabbed hold of the big glass Mrs. Tarnum had placed by her plate, and took a great gulp…of soy milk.

AWK…! This was the WORST tasting milk Clay had EVER tasted!

She spat the whole business out!

(Clay was, unfortunately, a very good spitter.)

What were these people trying to DO to her anyway! Poison her?

She sat back in her chair, folded her arms across her chest, and glared at them.

And they glared right back at her,

…all the way down to the Family Services Agency office.

And so it went.

The Critchleys…with their seven cats…to which Clay was totally…violently…redly and snuffily…allergic.

The Beanums…with their beautiful new car, with the white leather seats…that Clay was sick upon…and the antique gold spittoon, which had belonged to some dusty, long-dead king…that Clay spit in (Which IS, after all, what you are SUPPOSED to do with spittoons!)

The Donnars…and the school where, her very first day there, they started:

Clay! Her name is CLAY? As in DIRT?

Hey DIRT! Where’d they dig YOU up?

And they continued

…on and on

…day after day.

The Morgans were the latest. They were very nice.

But very…very…busy.

And Clay’s Social Worker shook her head yet again.

Then one lazy spring afternoon, things changed.

Clay was skipping along the sidewalk, trying to miss all the cracks, when she noticed an elderly lady in front of her…carrying a big bag of groceries, and where she walked, she left a white line on the sidewalk.

Clay followed behind, walking carefully on the line.

Hey, lady.

The old woman kept walking.

Hey…! You’re losin’ all your flour!

The woman kept walking.

By then Clay had almost caught up to her.

HEY, LADY! she yelled, and caught the woman by the arm.

Now Clay had read about people jumping out of their skins, but she had never really known what it meant…until now. The old lady jumped so fast and so far that she almost seemed to be in two places at once, and the bag of groceries flew straight up in the air, and oranges, potatoes, and eggs came raining down.

Hey! What you want! she screamed. Look what you made me do! Sneakin’ up on a person like that! …and she shook a banana in Clay’s face.

I was NOT sneakin’ up on you! I was YELLING at you…! Trying to tell you that your flour is spilling out on the sidewalk! What’s the matter with you anyway? You DEAF or somethin’?

I am NOT deaf! snarled the old lady, gathering up her groceries. Just a little hard of hearing is all.

Then she looked back at the white line trailing down the sidewalk. She sniffed: Humph, and then peered at Clay.

They call me Missie Marie. Who are you?

They call me Clay.

Humph…! Interestin’ name, and the woman started up the sidewalk again, her finger stuck in the hole in the flour bag.

A few steps along she turned and looked back. Thanks…Clay.

Then she started off again.

Clay watched her go; a lonely figure struggling along by herself.

Well…I guess I’d better be going then, mumbled Clay, to herself…and she walked off in the opposite direction.

Then she turned, and ran back.

I could help you hear things! she shouted breathlessly, when she caught up. I have really good ears…! And you shouldn’t be trying to carry all that heavy stuff by yourself anyway! Why isn’t your family helping you?

Humph…I don’t have any real family.

Oh. Me neither, shrugged Clay.

Humph.

Why do you keep saying ‘Humph’ all the time anyway? asked Clay.

Missie Marie looked startled, and squinted at Clay. I suppose I don’t have anythin’ better to say.

You could say ‘Aaah’, or ‘Umm’… or ‘Yodel-ay-de-oh.’

Missie Marie chuckled.

She handed Clay some of her groceries,