Birdie House, Birdie House, Birdie House

There were several mainstays at Sugar Loaf, those who'd lived in the old days before the Health Center became a private enterprise and was operated and known as the County Home. Three old-timers stand out: the most obvious was Tessy Talbot, aka T.T.

Like all Residents at Sugar Loaf, I never knew the scientific-medical explanation of the woman's condition. I left that to the experts, because most of my jobs were menial taking care of people by ministering to their physical needs. It doesn't take binomial nomenclature to change a bed pan or order a new one that's been bent from being thrown against a wall. Still, I, like everyone who came in contact with the venerable T.T., certainly knew her overt behavior.

T.T.'s most outstanding trait was her inability to state something only once. Instead of saying, "Hi, Tyrone," she said, "Hi, Tyrone, Tyrone, Tyrone." And a minute later, after musing over the sound of the man's or searching for a distant memory, spontaneously she'd echo, "Tyrone honest man. Honest man. Honest man." Then, after looking around the room, she'd repeat, "Nice man, nice man, nice man." I don't know if neurologically the woman had developed three nerve paths to the same brain cell, but she certainly sounded like the proverbial broken record.

T.T. was a marvel. She was severely mentally challenged and retarded. She couldn't recognize numbers so naturally she couldn't add them. She couldn't recognize letters so she couldn't form them into words. If those

weren't limiting enough, her condition also did not allow her to remember from one moment to the next even though it was something she'd done only seconds before. In her mind, whenever she did something it was the first and last time she performed it. Maybe repeating everything was her way of pounding things into her memory.

I see from my Journal notes that some people mistook her repetitive way of speaking for memory. But I'm confident that she never remembered a thing. This was especially evident with her relationship with Abe Springer. Abe and I played a lot of cards, and not wanting to be left out of anything, T.T. often joined in. Two problems presented themselves when T.T. played cards: she could not remember what card was what and what came before or after the one she was holding. This was aggravated by Abe's presence.

Because of her handicap, I had to help her with every card, always accompanied by the background music of, "Queen of Spades, Queen of Spades, Queen of Spades," or whatever card I said was needed. While it didn't help her win, I suspect the repetition helped the others know what should be played. Also, T.T. could not distinguish between the sounds Ace and Eight. Comically, because of her vanity and will to win, T.T. Talbot played with the assurance of one who knows what she'd doing.

As for Abe, whenever he and T.T. were together, the woman exhibited an unexplained tension. Anyone who saw her before and after the old man joined the game saw it too. Before Abe, T.T. was a bundle of merriment. But once he sat down, she turned into a first-class grouch. When she dealt (which she could do only by my pointing to the person she was supposed to give a card to next) she would pass over Abe or flick his cards upside down with a snarl. More than once I asked her why she was so mean to Abe. She never responded clearly because she couldn't remember why. All she

would say was, "Huh. Huh. Huh." I asked the long-term Med Aides if way back in the days of the County Home when the Residents were required to work for their room and board if Abe had done something to her in the corn patch or behind the barn. But not even the old timers could remember anything. Whatever the cause for the woman's behavior, I had to sit between the two to keep her from bludgeoning him.

T.T.'s will showed in a number of other ways. She was very possessive and she loved to horde. So much so that she became famous as a pack-rat. If anything was missing, all fingers pointed to T.T.'s closet, carefully protected by a bicycle chain and heavy lock. The only way she could remember where she'd left the key was to attach it to a brightly colored shoe lace with a small bell on the end; this she wore around her neck day and night. When candlesticks and napkin holders, staples and pieces of jigsaw puzzles, rubber stamps and small potted plants came up missing, Staff knew it was time to inspect the chained closet. If Sugar Loaf didn't make a monthly raid, the ole girl's closet could easily hold enough to supply a collectible store for six months. At one time anything missing became known as a "T.T." And, of course, if ever confronted directly, Miss T would vehemently disavow any knowledge whatever of where a given object came from or was. Equally humorous was when she opened her famous closet after an official Staff raid and never noticed a thing missing though the closet was as empty as Mother Hubbard's cupboard. She seemed to remembersomethingabout Abe, though couldn't put it into (three) words, but she remembered nothing about her pack-rat stashes.

It was obvious that T.T. had a one- (or three-) tracked mind. When asked what she wanted for Christmas, she ALWAYS said and resaid, "Birdie house, birdie house, birdie house." And a minute later, "Christmas, Christmas, Christmas." It doesn't take a calculator to realize that after

thirty-six Christmases and as many birthdays, Sugar Loaf became overpopulated with every size, shape, and color of house for the winged. My notes show that at one time in the mid-seventy's we had three Purple Martin hotels, six squirrel-protected stands for woodpeckers, how many songbird feeding stations no one could determine, and the list goes on. Periodically Staff retired some of the houses, with T.T. never missing one. Staff gave some away, repainted others, and even began a birdhouse collection in the far corner of the main storage room. So numerous were the birdie houses that pictures showed up periodically in the local newspaper and a volunteer from the VFW or JC's came out and stocked the feeding stations with seed. It goes without saying that the walls of T.T.'s room were voluminously covered with pictures of birdies as any teenager's with rock stars and movie heroes.

I can't leave T.T. without a final note concerning her will, Abe, and birdie houses, for all three were involved one incident. Through the years T.T. had become Juice Break Helper. She served punch or fruit juice mid-mornings and afternoons for the Residents. The possessive, strong-willed lady --- sheneverlet anyone call her "Ole Girl," though she was seventy-six and had a face so wrinkled she could put a bushel of ancient, desiccated prunes to shame --- ladled the juice with one eye watching her birdie houses through the window and another suspiciously spying Old Abe (who was exactly two weeks younger than T.T. and didn't mind being called old). Now Abe, as good-hearted as the day is long, liked to see things in order. But the night before the wind had picked up and left several of the famous birdie houses askew. Abe went outdoors and straightened them up. Seeing Abe half-way through a ladle of pineapple juice, T.T. yelled, "Birdie house, birdie house, birdie house. Bad man, bad man, bad man." Then promptly wheeled the cart, rattling with pails of juice, stirring spoon,

ladle, glasses, and flying with napkins. She went straight at the unsuspecting Abe. When he realized he was being pursued, the old fellow hobbled around the tree as fast as his weary legs could take him. Wild-eyed T.T. forged on screeching, "Birdie house, birdie house, birdie house. Bad man, bad man, bad man." No number of Staff or Administrators could persuade the woman from running the culprit down; she was convinced he was doing another baddie. That was a red-note day in my Journal.

Obviously T.T. Talbot gave great color to the Health Center. Her four-decade residency added strongly to the facility's history and my memory of the establishment.