Cards & Cigars
Now that high school was over, I started to get antsy about my life. Everyone around me was working or going on summer vacation.
I was just…there.
No life.
No future.
Nothing to look forward to.
That pretty much summed up my life in the early eighties. Someone with a disability wasn’t expected to make waves. Don’t worry about working or going to college. The Americans with Disabilities Act was still over a decade away. The physical world was inaccessible to a person using a wheelchair, a world full of steps and stairs and curbs to limit one’s mobility.
It’s fine to sleep until noon, watch television all day. That was the message I was getting from family, friends, and society. But that wasn’t me. The problem was I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life.
There was a nursing home called Phoenixville Manor just a block away from our new house. I noticed an article in the local paper looking for summer volunteers; I had never been in a nursing home before. I didn’t know what to expect. But that little voice inside me, the same voice which had guided me so many times in my life, told me to apply. I had nothing to lose.
I had the normal apprehension when I took a tour of the facility with Andy, the Social Service Director. He was young and friendly, with an easy smile and long, shoulder-length brown hair and a moustache, similar to James Taylor’s. I wasn’t sure what I was going to see, hear, or smell on the tour. As expected, most of the residents were older adults, many in wheelchairs.
We had something in common already.
They must’ve liked me because I started working in the facility gift shop later that week. It was a fun place to work because I got to meet many of the residents who drifted in during the day to browse or buy small items, like candy bars or nail polish.
It was a pretty easy gig. Open up the small shop Monday through Friday at ten o’clock in the morning, and lock-up at three. I would have an hour to freelance after that, a chance to visit residents on my own, especially those lonely residents who didn’t get any visitors.
One couple who came in the shop all the time was Bill and Dolly McGuire. Both were always dressed to the nines, like two tiny figurines on top of a wedding cake. Bill was normally decked out in a dark suit, tie, and fedora hat, while Dolly always wore a dress, heels, and a pearl necklace. I could imagine them walking the Jersey boardwalk in the summer or strolling to church on a warm Easter Sunday, pristine in their outfits. Bill mistakenly thought we had worked together for the Pennsylvania Railroad, so naturally, he always had to stop in to shoot the breeze about “the old days” as Dolly patiently waited for him to finish his conversation. Then off they went, holding each other under the arm, slowly pacing down the hallway. Dolly occasionally whacked Bill over the head with her handbag for no apparent reason, which didn’t seem to faze him.
I learned that I could easily talk to older people; I enjoyed it, and they seemed to like me too. I was willing to listen. They looked at my disability differently than most of the world. We shared a sense of trust. I knew what it was like to have limitations, to depend on others for simple needs. Another point in common.
In time, I became a fixture at the nursing home. I had a purpose in life now. I couldn’t wait to get up early in the morning and wheel the block to the nursing home. I was making friends and people needed me, which made me feel good.
During that first summer, I was assigned to spend time with John Dickert. He was reported to be a cantankerous elderly gentleman, usually dressed in western garb—a rusty brown string tie, vest, and old brown shoes. For some reason he often neighed like a horse between sentences. He reminded me of Grandpa Joad from the classic movie The Grapes of Wrath.
Andy thought it would be a good idea for me to visit Mr. Dickert for the freelance hour. He had a daughter who rarely visited, according to the resident. He was lonely and could use a friend.
I met Mr. Dickert for the first time as he was sitting in his wheelchair at the second-floor nursing station. Head in hands, he was dozing off as he waited for a cigar. I hated to wake him up; after a few taps on the shoulder, he lifted his head, befuddled, mumbling, “Who the hell?” before spotting me, his thin, wispy white hair messed up. I shook his hand, and introduced myself. He eyed me suspiciously with his cloudy blue eyes, wondering what a “young fella” like me wanted with a “forgotten old guy” like him.
From day one, even though I told Mr. Dickert my name, he called me Chester for some reason. “Chester, it’s good to see you again,” he remarked, even though I had never met him before. He insisted I call him John, so I did. Funny, he acted like we had been lifelong friends. I just rolled with whatever he said.
We started talking about anything and everything: the weather, sports, anything to break the ice. John enjoyed reminiscing, so I allowed him to do most of the talking. Listening turned out to be a valuable tool. I learned that most residents, like John, really wanted someone just to listen to them.
John was proud to show me his grainy, yellow photos from his wallet that he kept in his pocket or under his leg, photos of himself as a young man, his wife, his children, old cars, and old clothes. He laughed at himself, musing, “Didn’t I look good back then? I grew up in Philadelphia when Broad Street was a prairie.”
He stared at those memories, and I could see a twinkle in his eyes, how he wished he could transport his aging body through the photos and return to his youthful days. He would gaze at those same pictures every time I visited him, smiling at me fondly. I was happy that I seemed to bring him comfort and peace whenever I visited. The nurses were happy because I kept him busy instead of his frequent requests for his next cigar.
It was fascinating to gaze at the old styles of clothing, the different kinds of automobiles and old houses. With each photo came a detailed explanation and commentary (“That Oldsmobile was a real piece of crap to drive!”), and he tended to repeat himself quite a bit. Maybe it was closure, a way of validating his life. Imagine everything this guy had seen in life, all the history he saw and lived through, I told myself. At times I felt like a captive audience of one, but I really did enjoy our chats.
“Do you remember that house, Chester?” he would ask. As Mr. McGuire thought we had worked together for the Pennsylvania railroad, John was certain he knew me long, long ago—or at least thought he did. It wasn’t my role to correct him or upset him, so I played along.
“My daughter!” he would exclaim. “What a great girl . . .” His words faded away like the disappearing photos. Then he would suddenly snap out of his daze, asking what happened to my legs. Every time I briefly explained he looked so forlorn, poor guy.
“Such a shame,” he would lament. Here was a guy with his own problems yet he was offering support to me.
********
Cards and cigars—John loved both. Every day I met him at the second floor nurse’s station. And every day John mumbled and complained when the nurse was late with a match. I tried to find some common ground between us. He didn’t care to talk about sports or old movies anymore.
“Do you play Checkers?” I asked him.
“I hate Checkers,” he replied. “Everybody thinks old men like to play Checkers. Not me, Chester. You know I could never stand it.”
I noticed he had a beat-up pack of playing cards tucked into the side of his wheelchair, and I asked him what he played.
“Pinochle,” he replied, perking up. “Do you play?”
“You like Pinochle too?” I crowed. “Small world.”
Truth be told, I didn’t know a thing about Pinochle. Not a damn thing. But I hit on something that the old man liked, so I went with it.
“Want to turn over a few?” he asked through his cigar smoke, raising his bushy white eyebrows while holding up the pack of cards. When I agreed to a game, we headed for the dining room. John ordered a few residents to “Beat it” as we took over the nearest round table.
Cards were a bright spot for the old man. Finally having someone to play with was big for him. After our first game he eyed me suspiciously. “You know better than to play that card, Chester!” Confused or not, he knew his cards. I caught on after a while, basically following his moves until I had a grasp of the game—or at least I thought I did.
One afternoon a nurse was watching our game as she took the old man’s blood pressure.
“What are you guys playing?” she asked.
“Pinochle,” John replied. “What’s it to you, sweetie?”
“That’s not Pinochle,” she said. “Damned if I know what you’re playing.”
As it turned out, neither did we. John got confused and taught me versions of Pinochle, Rummy, and Whist, all rolled into one. Ah, what the hell… it didn’t matter. We were having fun, which was the main objective of our games. I went from not knowing how to play Pinochle, to thinking I knew how to play Pinochle, to not really knowing how to play Pinochle.
Every afternoon we “turned over a few,” as the old man called it. We soon became known by the nurses and staff as the “afternoon card players”, always stationed at our favorite round table in the dining room near the entrance, in case the old guy had to quickly rush out to pee. Our afternoons together were similar to the play “The Gin Game.” He didn’t care about going outside on a nice day, or activities, or music, or sports or anything else, for that matter. All he wanted to do was play cards—plain and simple.
That was my assignment for close to two years.
********
Things started to slowly come together in my life. I talked to a few people around the nursing home, including Andy, about social work. I honestly didn’t know that I could get paid for doing what I did at the Manor. Granted, social work was much more than just playing cards with a lonely old man. It was paperwork and assessments, counseling and mediation; it was at least four years of school plus more if I wanted a Master’s degree. It was hard work, studying, commitment, and determination—exactly what I wanted.
As part of my internship, I helped John complete a Life Review. A Life Review was an official, “on the record” accounting of his entire life, done in written form, speaking on a cassette tape, or by talking on a video tape. One afternoon he finally agreed.
“You did a good job, John!” I complimented. He needed this positive affirmation. He no longer made statements such as “Nobody listens to an old man” after the Life Review.
Now, his family could read his words of wisdom anytime they wanted. In that way, his spirit would live on forever. I prayed for him to get more visits from his family.
********
School kept me busy that first semester. I was doing well but my schedule had changed. Trying to keep ahead of term papers and getting adjusted to a whole new way of life took up most of my time. I got to see John twice a week during my internship. Every time I stopped by, all dressed up in a suit and tie, John would reach for his worn deck of cards and ask if I “wanted to turn over a few” like old times.
“You look sharp, Chester,” John surmised. “Got a date?”
The nurses told me how much John looked forward to our visits, and how he lamented whenever I couldn’t make it in. I thought about that a lot: how much my visits meant to one lonely old man. I was making a difference in his life. I promised to stop by during Christmas break, so we could catch up on our cards.
The first free afternoon I had before Christmas I took that familiar spin up the block to the nursing home. All the way up in the elevator I thought about how excited he would be to see me. I brought him a box of cigars, all wrapped up in Christmas paper, and a brand-new pack of cards. But when I emerged from the elevator on the second floor, expecting to see John smoking a cigar in the lounge area, he was nowhere to be found.
I checked the dining room, thinking he wasn’t finished with lunch. He wasn’t there. The room was full of residents eating lunch and nursing assistants feeding lunch but no John.
He must be having lunch in his room, I thought. Maybe he wasn’t feeling well today and decided to stay in bed. To my surprise, a middle-aged woman was in John’s room, sorting through his belongings.
I knocked on the open door, inquiring “Where’s John?”
“I’m his daughter, Bessie,” she finally answered, staring at me. “He passed away this morning.”
“Passed away?” I repeated. I sat there, stunned. She just looked at me, and I finally uttered the words, “I’m sorry,” to her and to myself.
“Thank you,” she said. “He caught pneumonia and died at the hospital. I came over to get his things. May I ask who are you?”
“I’m Ted. We used to play cards together…”
“Oh, so you are the card player,” she said, a smile playing on her face. “He mentioned you quite a bit during our weekly visits. He really liked you. Now I can see why.”
“He was a great guy,” I said. “He inspired me to be a social worker.”
“Did you ever see the pictures in his wallet?” she asked.
“Yes. He always loved to look at his old photos,” I said.
“Then you know,” she said mysteriously.
“Know what?”
She grabbed his bulky, ancient wallet, which was laying on the bed with scattered personal items and an assortment of shirts and trousers. She opened it and paged through the yellow-tinged photos in the plastic coverings; she stopped and handed me the wallet. What I saw floored me.
Why was there an old and worn picture of me in his wallet? Why was I wearing clothes dating back to the early nineteen-hundreds? Even more shocking, why was I standing in the photo? I was never able to stand in my life.
“Chester,” she explained, “my father’s younger brother. He died in the war. Dad never got over it. They were very close. It’s really bizarre how much you look like him. Spitting-image in fact… like looking into a mirror.”
My hand started shaking as I handed back the wallet.
All that time, if he thought I was his younger brother, so be it. Who knows? Maybe I was Chester in another life? One way or another, John and I were destined to meet… or be reacquainted.
“Well, I guess I’ll just end up donating most of his belongings,” she mentioned. “I’ll keep a few personal items to remember him by. He left his written history of his life that someone must’ve helped him with. Listen, thanks for visiting my father and helping him pass the time. Oh, by the way, here are his playing cards. You’re welcome to have them, if you want.”
“Thank you. I’ll cherish these,” I said, accepting the old deck with the smokey scent.
With that I left the room, waiting for the elevator. There was the smoking lounge, the place where we had met so many times. I would miss my friend, but I wouldn’t forget him. Even thirty years later, after I retired from Social Work, I would remember John. He was the first resident I spent time visiting and the first who really touched my heart. He gave me a purpose and showed me that I could make a difference in someone’s life by extending a friendly hello, sharing a simple visit, and passing time with a deck of cards.
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About the Author
Gregory Smith is a retired medical social worker, working in various nursing homes for thirty years. He is active on social media, including Facebook, X, Instagram and Blue Sky. Greg enjoys vintage music (including The Beatles and yacht rock), classic films, Philadelphia sports, and reading. He is married and is the proud owner of a pair of Morkie dogs, Katie and Cocoa.