There is a letter in the letter box. A personal sort of letter with my name written in nice handwriting but no stamp or address.
Obviously hand delivered.
The only sort of letters I get these days apart from bills are the endless invitations from real estate agents offering free property valuations because apparently there are endless buyers out there wanting to spend obscene amounts on decrepit old houses in a former slum on the flight path. They should move to Wagga or Wodonga and spend their money wisely.
The letter looks friendly — an invitation to an event in the neighbourhood I think, perhaps an Anzac Day barbecue.
I like the idea of community and doing things with the neighbours.
I know the letter is not from the nice Christian lady down the road who is into community. She puts printed invitations in everyone’s letterbox at Christmas time. No names or envelopes, just an invitation to bring ‘‘something to share’’.
Her party could be fun if more people turned up but they don’t. They drive up with their Eskies and just keep driving when they see the big sign on the veranda: ‘‘Boy born in stable saves the world’’. Perhaps people feel they can’t drink with Christians. Too serious. But I’m happy to drink with anyone, especially since Oma of the Devastating Dementia has moved in and buggered up my life.
Still expecting to be invited somewhere, I retrieve the good quality writing paper from the envelope.
‘‘Violet,’’ it says, ‘‘your mum keeps knocking on our door. She does it every day.’’ Signed ‘‘concerned neighbour from number 41’’.
Oma’s dementia works in mysterious ways. She can’t remember where the dinner plates are kept and sometimes she can’t find her bedroom, but she has no problem finding ways to escape.
For a while — after she absconded with her suitcase and was found wandering around a shopping centre car park — I used to lock the front door, believing that her impaired brain would never remember there was a side gate let alone work out how to open it. To get out that way you have to move three rubbish bins and pull back two rusty bolts. (I always find it a chore on garbage nights).
Oma had no problem doing that, undoubtedly bolstered by superhuman strength obtained from eating seven bananas in one go.
Once she got out she decided she didn’t really want to run away and tried to get back into the house. Having totally forgotten by then that she had exited through the side gate, she tried to re-enter through the locked front door. I only know this because the guy across the road who is friendly with my next door neighbour rang her at work and she contacted me.
As I was preparing to rush home, I got another text message saying the problem was sorted — the neighbours worked out what was going on and escorted her through the side gate.
Confident that Oma has settled into living in Sydney and doesn’t want to run away anymore, and knowing she likes to sit on the front veranda and coerce passers-by into conversation, I decide to leave the locking up to her. Stupid!
It appears that after she locks the front door after me when I go to work, she does what she calls ‘‘housework’’. That usually involves arranging the TV and radio remotes in a new place, taking her clothes out of her room and hanging them up in the guest room — very annoying if there happens to be guests — and repacking her suitcase in readiness for that drive back to Croatia. Then it’s time to go visiting.
She is looking for community, where people know each other and visit often. She is always talking about her neighbours back home in the village where she hasn’t been for 50 years — although she insists she left there yesterday — and how they meet up for tea and a chat when the work is done. In the life she remembers, there is always someone around.
While there is some sense of community in the street, the people in number 41 don’t really want to sit and chat with a demented old lady. They have other things to do.
After getting the letter, I decide to knock on their door myself.
So what does my mother say when she comes to your door, I ask the man of the house?
She always tells us that she has just arrived from Croatia, he says.
I feel quite sad. She just wants to chat over tea and cake and tell them about her village life.