Behind Florence's parking lot was a middle school run by a local church. At times the children at play could sound like a pack of dogs. The sound rushed from end to end; sometimes closer, if they were using the baseball field. Only during the summer, when the school was given to church camps, did the noise lessen. In the Fall, with the start of the school year, their shrieks pierced through the eycaliptus trees that seperated the school from the apartments. The children played all during the winter, albeit on the asphalt, further away from the apartments. But with the rites of spring, the chilly air gave to warmth once again, the eucalyptus shook, and cries became louder, day by day, until the school year ended in June.
It was a long time before the asphalt in the parking lot was replaced. When I would return from an errand into town with Florence I would pull up to the curb, next to a fire hyrant, so we'd have a straight shot to her apartment.
By the end of it all I got pretty good at yanking her wheelchair in and out of the back of my 94 Honda Accord. If I gripped the chair by the top handle and the wheel, I could eaisly jerk it into the air, using its weight to arc into the air, twisting my back at just the right moment, so that the chair would carry itself onto the asphalt, landing with a minimal thud on the wheel itself. Had Florence ever heard or seen this she might not have liked it. Her chair was expensive, and the was only alloted one per several years. But the chair would spring open and I'd wheel it onto the red curb, open the passenger side door, and help Florence int the chair.
But sometimes that winter the emergency curb was deemed unfit for passenger dropoff due to its proximity to the fire hydrant. In order to prevent people from dropping passengers off the curb was painted yellow, which of course confused people into thinking the curb was specifically for dropping passengers off. But finally it was painted red.
I tried to persuede Florence to allow me to continue using the curb. It was so much closer and easier to do so, even if I had to come back out to the car in 100 degree heat, and move it under the eycalyptus trees. But no, Florence would be part of breaking the rules. I resented her for this at times. Parking under the trees meant I had get the chair out of the car, put Florence into it, wheel her 50 feet to the curb, help her out of the chair, steady her, make sure her oxygen tube was clear of the wheel, hope she wouldn't fall down and die, lift the chair onto the curb, sit her back into it and then wheel her back into her apartment. That said, objects necesitate circumnavigation and one day, one of us noticed a ramp not far from where I'd park my car and we started using that.
Florence was hardly heavy, she lost weight continuously and rarely ate more than one or two meals in a day. Pushing her in the chair was never what I would call strenuous, unless we mangaged to find an incline. The stores we freqented (Walmart and Safeway) had motorized carts, which Florence liked to use if the option presented itself. For some reason I didn't like this, because it meant that rather than actively pushing her around a store, I had to follow her around with a cart. Her electric propeller would stop and start, clicking each time and like a dog I listened for these various noises while scanning the store for whatever colors or women that caught my eye.
Florence liked the activity of shopping more than the shopping itself. At some point her psychologist, I'm sure, encouraged her to carry out everyday activities as if she were able bodied and minded.
I could imagine Florence in her heyday, strolling up and down the streets of Livermore on a Saturday afternoon, perusing the boutiques, butchers, and craft stores. Not buying much, but occasionally buying.
I could see this, as we walked through Walmart, and I wanted to encourage her, as we sifted through plastic pots to house new plastic plants. But after an hour at both Walmart and Target, I could get frustrated, and like many husbands, I suppose, started nodding and endorsing whatever product was waved in front of my face.
I'm not sure if Florence liked Walmart or not. We bought things there, but in the times we'd drive through the old downtown of Livermore, where I could picture the old building; the old bank which now housed bar and grill, the Quizno's sandwitches which may have been a hat store, and the wine store that was perhaps a sewing machine repair. I wondered if Florence missed it or if it was just simply gone. If things had changed gradually over the years or if something else had turned the city on its end. Was this depressing to her as it was to me? Or was this just the course of life? The stream that winds and turns down a hill, gathering in a pool at the base, drying up in the summer, but returning in the winter.