Today's entry is about "Freds I have known."  There was the pink-dyed Easter chick that I raised in the house until my grandmother accidentally shut him in a porch door.  Fred the horse in our pasture who lived to be over 30 years old belonged to a young neighbor boy named Fred Pepper, who is still one of my best and dearest friends.

Fred the Turtle lives in the lobby of Brookdale Ridgeland senior living facility where I am recovering from complications of osteoporis, post polio, and multiple sclerosis.  This Fred lives in an aquarium--usually in dirty water, beating his legs against the glass walls futilely trying to escape his watery prison.  Everyone in the facility speaks to Fred occasionally and he is fed a monotonous diet that keeps him alive.  Some of the caregivers even joke about turning him into soup. Fred the Turtle does enjoy brief moments in which he seems to be content basking on a rock under the light, but most of his time is spent paddling around the edge of his confinement, looking for something.  Whenever I pass his "room" on the way to mine, I think Fred the Turtle is a metaphor for all of us residents who are still aware of where we are most of the time and would prefer something a little more...more natural...more thoughtful...more compassionate...more beautiful...more friendly...more like home.

This morning I put on my orthopedic boot and house dress and power chaired down to the dining room to grab the last butter container on my table--we think these were a mistake, we usually get a "buttery spread"--and snag a large mug of coffee.  Back in my room I made an excellent piece of toast from some English toasting bread I picked up at Walmart and ate a half orange left over from my vodka and tonic with orange last night.  The oranges are provided by the facility.

JP was on a roll of agitation about something--best not to inquire too closely, as she might then target you.  The bus driver once said of her that "she's drive able, but there is no one behind the steering wheel."  She told me once that she was diagnosed as manic depressive.  Depending on the day, she may run you down to assault you with Jesus who raised her from actual death or the news that her aunt who taught her English for 3 years, shared your first name.  She is younger than I and her sister guardian  "keeps" her here.

RW told me his long lost love Bonnie Jo called him last night.  He drives by her facility and waves to her, but she is afraid to invite him in, because "the other old ladies might talk about her."  Maybe we can work on that as he is mobile and she is not, and he is ashamed of his rooms after seeing hers at her facility.

Today I will be measured for a splint to help lengthen my short Achilles tendon on my right foot.  Mr. Watson knows that I am in a boot for my injured ankle, but says that will not affect the measurements he needs.

Artful Hours seems to be painting a cupcake this month.  Think I will pass this one--maybe do some sketching on my own.