The Tamale Lady

I'm a sucker for home-made Tamales - and Birthdays are wonderful things.

23 January 2015
Vienna, Virginia, USA

       I have another Birthday coming up on Sunday. I was going to write a reflective piece about turning 71 years-old and then figured I wouldn't because everyone writes about their Birthday. Joyce Miller posted something that caused me to think. It was Her birthday and she was being modest about it. I wrote her back that we as human beings should celebrate each day of our lives as a Birthday. Some hate their birthdays - they can't stand to see time passing them. It's part of the human condition to dislike any kind of change. I told her to look upon it as a gift, because that's what it is. Each of us were born. Each of us will eventually die, so seize each day and proclaim it as another day to celebrate. I wake up each morning (and like a good Catholic) bless myself that I'm still alive and that God has given me another chance to get out of bed.

       A few weeks ago I changed my medical care from the Veterans Administration and put it into the hands of  Humana Health Care.  I fell out of my chair when I found out it was free due to my status as a service-connected, 'disabled' veteran. I've marked the disabled, because that's what I'm labeled as by the VA System; but at age 71 I'm still able to hike and dance the night away with every pretty woman who will let me. Connie and I still like to travel the world internationally. Pure luck (and your DNA strain) has everything to do with what kind of condition you're in when you reach my age. It's difficult not to notice the younger ones around me who aren't so lucky. I empathize with them, but there is nothing I can say or do about it, except to emphasize that my whole life story is about the proverbial Cat with Nine Lives. As a combat-veteran it was always about the luck of the draw. "Bullets don't discriminate." is another little goodie we used to tell ourselves upon waking in the morning. I signed my name to the new Humana policy knowing that I would get that eventual call; the one where an inquisitor asks you a thousand questions about your past health history. You know, the drudge of going through all those questions and trying to recall everything that ever happened to you in 71 years.

       "Tameekwa" rang me up about two weeks later. She seemed young. She wanted me to take a few minutes to answer some questions. Here it comes, I thought, and she's going to love my life-story. So I settled back on the couch and got as comfortable as I could. Talk about a wake-up call. The inquisition proceeded as follows:

Tameekwa:  "Here goes. First question, Mr. Henry. Can you lift ten pounds?"
Me:  (pause) "Yes."
T.     "Can you lift ten pounds over your head?"
Me:   "Yes."
T.     "Can you lift up both arms above your shoulders?"
Me:   "Of course."
T.     "Can you bend down and stoop?"
Me:   "Easily."
T.      "Can you tie your own shoes or do you need assistance?"
Me:  "Of course and I don't need help."
T.     "Can you walk a quarter of a mile?"
Me:  "I climbed Mt. Diablo a few months ago!"
T.    "Is that a yes?"
Me:  "Yes!!"
T.    "Do you have trouble getting in and out of a chair, or do you need assistance?"
M:   (long, long pause) "Yes, I have no trouble with any of that!"
T.    "Are you in need of visiting assistance, say, nurses, or care-givers for the week or any part of a week?"
Me:  (long pause)  "How many more of these questions do I have to answer?"
T.   " Just 30 more questions."
M:  "Can I answer Yes to all of them??" (facetiously)
T.   "Sorry. I have to ask them."
Me:  "Yes, of course. (laughing) Who was this test designed for??"
T.    "Well, Mr. Henry, uh, people your age."

       The test went on. I think I passed with flying colors. It left me thinking. Is this country's physical condition that bad? I thought about all the 80 and 85 year-old women I used to see daily in Denmark getting on bicycles to do their chores, market-trips, etc. There were a lot of humorous questions on that survey and I reiterate that I have the deepest sympathy for those who do not enjoy the quality of life that I do. Luck of the draw again.

"Flowers for the Dead"

       Gratitude for what you've been gifted is a wonderful thing, indeed. It comes to me in strange episodes. An old Honduran woman showed up in our drive way today at noon-time selling Tamales. She reminded me of that symbolic specter that shows up at Blanche's door in Streetcar Named Desire:  "Flowers for the Dead!  Flowers for the Dead!" except this time she was equipped with an old shopping cart carrying two coolers. We live in a town with strict codes and laws dealing with people going house-to-house trying to peddle stuff; especially hot food. I'm sure the old Tamale lady was shocked at our delight when we happily bought five-dollars worth of  Tamales from her. We talked to her for a while. Laughed and joked. We are in California frequently and I sneak away during the day to visit a Tamale lady who stations herself outside the local Safeway a few blocks down the street from my son's house. She makes the best pork-stuffed Tamales I've ever tasted. Sometimes I take my grand daughter with me. She likes them, too. My grand daughter laughs about my penchant for illegal, off-the-street, Tamales. The illegality of it is part of the adventure. That a Tamale-seller should show up in our (very gringo) neighborhood is no accident. You can expect it in California - not Vienna, Virginia. There are so many new houses going up around us, all in the 1 Mil range and all of them are being crafted by Latinos. Most are Mexicans and they do good work. They work hard and on very little pay and food. Lately the Mexican food trucks have been showing up, going from lot to lot to feed the workers. I'm sure there is some sort of communications network between both trucks and workers, so they can all make a buck. Seeing the Tamale lady brought back funny memories of Connie and I on a trip to see the Russian River north of San Francisco. In the middle of nowhere we stopped to buy some hot, steaming Tamales from a woman who was selling them out of the back of an old beat-up station wagon. One of my most memorable road-side, impromptu lunches. They all have the same cooler-set up and you know who they are and what they're selling. No accounting, no taxes, no permits, nobody hounding them about food regulations.

       I asked her if she would be by again and she eye-balled the construction on the new houses going on around our property as if to say as long as this was going on she would be back. Connie paid her five-dollars and handed me the Tamales and wished me a "Happy Birthday!" Gratitude is also wrapped in funny memories - like a good Tamale wrapped in a steaming corn-husk.