Assisted Living Christmas
(Last holiday season I published a collection of Christmas tales about the homeless called Gift of the Magi. Readers on my platforms made an extraordinary effort to support this book and it sold a lot more copies than I ever imagined. The book is still for sale this holiday season at Nestuccaspitpress.com or available through the Amazon portal as a print and e-book at: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FR4TDMFR Below is a tale from Gift of the Magi. Enjoy.)
Emma worked as a caregiver in the Moreland Senior Living center in a leafy and liberal neighborhood of Portland. She was 19 years old. She was short with long black hair and sported a nose ring. Her sexual preference was for boys, but not all the time.
Moreland Senior Living was owned by Oceanic, a privately-held business of 33 such senior living centers on the West Coast. Industry experts estimated Oceanic earned a profit of $17 million the last fiscal year. Their average monthly rates in the four-storey building ranged from $5300-$7200 a month. It all depended on the size of the apartment and care needs of the residents. Oceanic didn’t accept Medicaid funds so the residents had to pay the tab themselves and surely they were last American generation who could afford this expensive end-of-life scenario, which for many was no life at all, but then again, the United States is the most superstitious, cruel and profit-minded nation on Earth when it comes to dying without dignity.
Across the street from the center, in plain view from the ground floor dining room, was a homeless encampment situated on a sidewalk in front of a recently bulldozed lot slated for luxury apartments a far flung private equity firm would gobble up for vacation rentals or leave vacant for a tax write-off. To the left of the encampment, a fitness center’s back wall. To the right, a dilapidated home with an overgrown yard.
The encampment appeared overnight and was now going on five months. The size varied, but usually it consisted of a few tents, a couple battered vehicles, several bicycles with improvised trailers, and a tarped plywood shanty. There was also one large man confined to a wheelchair who used a massive, repurposed armoire as a kind of shelter.
Residents of the encampment ranged in ages from 23 to 75. They all vaguely knew each other and had relocated to the Moreland neighborhood after a third sweep of downtown Portland. Not once after any of the sweeps had a single city, county or non profit employee tasked with addressing the homeless crisis showed up to offer shelter or housing options.
There was a considerable amount of detritus around the encampment, but as far as homeless encampments went in Portland, this one was almost benign: no fires, no needles, no generators, no feces, very few screaming freakouts, and no open drug use, although drug use was happening for sure.
The city had received 37 online complaints about the encampment since it had sprung up, 33 from Moreland Senior Living management (none from the residents of the center). No one from management had ever attempted communication with the encampment, but then why would they? What would they say? What could they do?
A lot if they tried. It all must begin with one person acting, either with or without authorization. The latter is often more successful.
Emma wasn’t management. She made contact with the encampment a week after it materialized and taken it from there in a subtle way, as so many people do when the homeless appear in their midst on a regular basis, which is to say everywhere in America.
A sweep was inevitable, but would it happen now—five days before Christmas? What was Christmas to a small homeless encampment anyway? The residents must have known the holiday season had arrived considering all the outdoor lighting and decorations. What did it mean to people living on the streets or in the woods? Did it stir memories of wonderful or sinister times?
Emma first met residents of the homeless encampment on a smoke break. Most of the caregivers, housekeepers and kitchen staff smoked and they typically congregated in the back parking lot to smoke, vape and shoot the shit. One morning the parking lot was being repaved so Emma smoked her one Winston a day under a maple tree across the street from the encampment. She’d seen similar small encampments for years growing up in Portland, but this one seemed different to her and she didn’t understand why.
After the parking lot was repaved two days later, Emma didn’t return to smoke with the others. She had already made first contact with the campers and there was no going back to wild sex stories and recaps of bloated streaming shows.
Exactly why a bright, happy, reasonably well-adjusted young woman like Emma in the age of debasing and corrupting social media, raised by an indifferent alcoholic mother who barely made a living as a part-time bartender, relished a career as a caregiver in an assisted living center for $21.35 an hour (minimum benefits, no union) when grocery stores paid $25 (full benefits and union protections) was a simple story: Emma left the womb destined to help a certain demographic of senior citizens live out their lives the best way possible. She loved the job and could not imagine doing anything else.
She had found her gift to the world—the gift of caring for others. Incredibly enough, it all happened by sheer accident.
Let us return briefly to that moment, not that characters in Christmas tales need elaborate backstories. All that matters is magic; magic supersedes everything else. That’s why tales are written and why we need them more than ever in these decidedly dark American times. Tales can help manifest our better angels. They offer hope. Corny? Without hope in your life, you’re already dead.
It was the Monday after the Super Bowl of her junior year at Milwaukie High School and half the teachers called in sick, nursing Super Bowl party hangovers.
Emma made her way to third period—American Government, a totally useless class in the Age of Trump, and taught almost totally by AI-generated online lessons where every lesson ended with rote regurgitation. Her teacher never taught. He coordinated technology and played on his phone.
Gore Vidal once wrote that proof of the failure of the American public education system was two landslide victories by Ronald Reagan. Proof of the failure of secondary social studies education was two victories by Donald Trump.
Emma walked into class and saw a young substitute teacher leaning against a whiteboard. He greeted every student who entered and announced his name. That blew Emma’s mind right there.
When everyone had taken their seats, the substitute announced that their teacher had failed to leave a lesson plan so the substitute was going to wing it.
Wing it? What did that mean?
The substitute asked the class if any of them had visited the assisted living center across the street. No one had. Most of the class didn’t know what an assisted living center was. The substitute said his girlfriend was the activities director of the center and she would lead this class on a tour of the facility—in one minute—and students would meet some of the residents.
It would all unfurl as a real honest-to-George Washington social studies teaching moment.
No, the substitute didn’t have permission from the Principal. No, they weren’t going to fill out any damn forms. They were just going to walk off campus, out the back door, and not tell the office. Do not post this to your social media platforms.
This was the lesson plan for all six of the substitute’s classes. He was about ready to make his third trip of the day! In this way, Emma learned the art of winging it for the greater good. The 42 minutes Emma spent in the assisted living center that Monday morning in February changed her forever because someone winged it.
It was a whirlwind tour, discussions with staff and residents short. But Emma would remember meeting Maya, one of the Latino caregivers describe the rewards of working with the elderly. She positively pulsed with joy. Emma also never forgot Margaret, a resident who served as a nurse in the Vietnam War.
Emma had no idea what the Vietnam War was because her US History course never covered it and her teacher never bothered to invite any of the many veterans who lived one minute away to his social studies classes. Everything he needed aired on YouTube—except flesh and bone.
After meeting Margaret, Emma developed an instant passion for American history and later became an accomplished oral historian when she elicited historical stories from residents when providing care. She never wrote up the stories, that wasn’t her forte, but she shared them in conversations, and in that way they lived on.
The second Emma and her class returned to school, she walked to the counseling office and met with a counselor to learn how to expedite graduating from high school and begin a career helping seniors in assisted living centers. She was done with rote regurgitation, boring teachers, pep assemblies and tablets. She wanted to get her hands on the real world, and wrestle out some goodness.
The counselor gave her the lowdown on graduating early: take extra online courses and a couple health career classes at a community college. All of this education was free and there were plenty of scholarships to cover expenses for obtaining a Certified Nursing Assistant (CNA) certification, a requirement for becoming a caregiver.
Sign me up!
She didn’t bother telling her mother the new plan, or that after meeting the counselor she marched across the street and asked the receptionist at the center if there were any jobs a 17-year-old could perform.
There were. Three days later Emma began working a part time gig in the kitchen as a Jill-of-all-trades for the weekday dinner shift. On Saturday and Sunday she worked full time and brought meals to the tables and memorized the names of every diner.
Emma graduated that summer, turned 18, earned her CNA by the fall, and wanted a fresh start in a new center. Moreland Senior Living hired her as a caregiver for the graveyard shift. It was just her and another caregiver during those odd hours. Nevertheless, someone always needed care or to discuss a terrible dream. Emma even walked dogs around the block if they needed it. She loved those dogs.
She absolutely thrived on the job and began taking extra shifts. She saved her money and moved into an apartment with two friends from high school. The place cost an absurd $2300 a month, was old, cramped, dank, but she had her own bedroom and could bicycle to work. She saved all she could for an old pickup. She always wanted to drive a pickup and didn’t know why.
In her seven months working at Moreland Senior Living, management turned over, two maintenance supervisors disappeared, the nurse and care coordinator quit, as did the chef, the head receptionist was fired, and med technicians, housekeeping staff and caregivers came and went.
Emma shined as the one constant presence in all the residents lives and they took a grand liking to her. They frequently offered her cash or gift cards to show their appreciation. Emma turned them all down; it was against corporate policy for employees to accept such gifts from residents, but she wouldn’t have taken them even if it was allowed.
When Emma first met the residents of the encampments, it was all about sharing her smokes and bottles of water and juice she stashed in her pockets. They talked about the campers’ dogs, her pickup, the weather, her job, squirrels, music.
They never discussed personal reasons for homelessness or anything to do with homelessness. They didn’t discuss Halloween or Thanksgiving, and as Christmas neared, nothing about Christmas.
Emma conducted a kind of ad hoc social service with the campers, but never thought of it as service. Everything she did was entirely improvised on intuition and addressing a glaring need. In short order, they all became friends and Emma learned their first names, but never their last.
One morning as light began coming on, four days before Christmas, Emma sipped black coffee in the dining room before her shift started. She looked out the window to the encampment—not a creature was stirring. She checked the weather forecast on her phone: temperatures in the mid 30s and sleet for a few days but Christmas Eve should clear up.
Sleet. Brutal for the homeless. Emma didn’t know how they survived. She did sense that some of them liked the freedom from the rapacious rat maze of capitalism that had bankrupted so many Americans, materially and spiritually. She also sensed in others a physical and psychic exhaustion with living outdoors and desire to get into housing of some kind but they never specifically articulated this desire to her.
Someone emerged from a tent. It was a woman named Allie, in her 30s. Her terrier mutt Rocky followed behind her wearing a sweater. Allie was taking Rocky for his daily constitutional. They walked to the Willamette River every morning.
Something else arrested Emma’s attention. She noticed twinkle lights around Rocky’s head. In the shape of antlers! Allie had decorated her dog for Christmas with some preposterous but charming novelty. Where in the world had that come from?
It came from the nearby independent pet store. The owners had met Allie and Rocky, as so many people meet the homeless, on the street, in their neighborhoods. Someone started a conversation, probably about Rocky, and pretty soon, the owners helped out with dog food and other assorted items. Allie didn’t advertise their generosity and the owners didn’t post about it on the store’s social media platforms, but both benefited from this quiet generosity and caring and it possibly marked one small step to lead Allie into housing.
Emma’s eyes followed Rocky’s twinkling antlers until they disappeared. She drank her coffee and dove into her creative mind. Sleet began pummeling the window. It was like someone slapping Emma across the face.
I’ve got to do something for them this Christmas. Cigarettes and bottled water are not enough!
It was time for her to wing it.
First: Emma checked with the chef about preparing ten take-out boxes of Christmas feast leftovers. So much went into the garbage after every meal.
Can’t be done.
Second: Emma checked with the activities director about donating some of the unused decorations to the encampment. At least ten totes existed in storage.
No.
Third: Emma checked with the nurse about assembling some toiletry kits comprised of unopened items left behind by dead residents and give them to the encampment. They had two shelves loaded in the nurse’s office.
Impossible.
Fourth: Emma checked with the maintenance supervisor about allowing the encampment to borrow two large propane heaters on Christmas Eve. They’d be returned two days later. A dozen rested against a railing, chained together on the outdoor recreation patio. They hadn’t been ignited in years.
Hell no!
Emma never reacted to the rejections. She never argued. Why argue with automatons?
She began planning instead, a way around the indifference. For a second, she thought about enlisting support from a few residents, but then dismissed the notion. Emma knew she had to act in stealth, with stunning rapidity. A few of the residents were notorious gossipers and Fifth Columnists who would love informing management. No. Do it alone. Do it fast. Do it in secret.
The plan:
First: pizzas delivered on Christmas Eve. Make it a surprise and join the repast. Bring box wine and cannabis gummies.
Second: steal one of the totes, tie a bow around it, and let the campers go nuts. Hold a contest! Top prize: a carton of Winstons.
Third: cull the toiletry items and rig up the kits. It would take ten minutes. No one would miss anything.
Fourth: unlock the chains and roll the heaters over to the encampment in broad daylight on December 24. Right out in the open. No one will think anything of it.
Well in advance of the holiday season, Emma asked to work on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. There would be minimal staffing but maximum visitation by relatives during those hours. Perfect camouflage for subterfuge. Perfect for winging it!
And wing it Emma did.
The weather dried up as predicted. The pizzas arrived on time. The wine got guzzled with glee. The shanty won the decorating contest with an ingenious rotating bicycle wheel with birthday cake candles duct taped to the spokes. It was beautiful. The candles didn’t last long, but perhaps the twirling brightness lasted just long enough for someone to notice the flames and see what that kindled inside.
During mealtime, management always closed the dining room drapes of the windows that looked out to the homeless encampment. And they were closed when the Christmas Eve party in the encampment began, but one resident peeked through to check the weather and saw a party unfolding. She stood up, rolled her walker to window, and used all her strength to draw open the drapes.
One by one, residents and their relatives took notice of the party. They stopped eating. A few got up and shuffled to the window. Then several more. They saw Emma laughing and smoking and drinking. They saw the campers.
A resident wheeled over to a window and managed to open it. Then he did the same with two other windows.
Something was missing. Music. Christmas music.
A male resident rolled a piano over to the window and someone carried the stool. No one had played it in years. The man sat down and cracked his knuckles together with cartoon panache.
He played the scales, a little boogie woogie riff, and then launched into “Deck the Halls” with maniacal energy. He yelled out the lyrics:
Deck the halls with boughs of holly,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
‘Tis the season to be jolly,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Some of the residents joined in:
Don we now our gay apparel,
Fa la la, la la la, la la la.
Toll the ancient Yule tide carol,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
It was all so gloriously out of tune, piano and voices. Nothing sounds better than people who can’t sing, singing out-of-tune Christmas carols when they really mean it.
The piano player knew the other two verses to the song, but nobody else did, so they sang the first verse again and again.
Partygoers across the street heard the piano and singing. Emma directed them to join her outside the window. They all walked over together, dogs too.
The player wrapped up Deck the Halls with flourish and then ripped into “We Wish You Merry a Christmas.”
Everyone sang along. No “Silent Night” this night. Too melancholy This was a party! And bring us some figgy pudding!
On December 26th, management fired Emma. One day later, the President of the Residents’ Council presented management with a petition signed by 73 residents and 37 of their relatives that stated the following:
Emma immediately reinstated with a raise of $5 an hour.
Emma appointed the center’s liaison to the homeless encampment and in charge of helping them make a transition to shelter or housing.
Residents will withhold next month’s payment and all subsequent payments until demands are met. Try evicting 73 residents at the same time. The media will eat this news alive.
Management caved into all the demands 22 minutes after receiving the petition. They did not inform corporate headquarters about the incident.
They were all in it together now. As it should be. It wasn’t long after Christmas that Emma began the hard work of trying to assist the campers into shelter and housing. But that is another story, and unfortunately, not a tale.