Zurita

            The summer before 5^th grade, my dad decided it was time to move back to Idaho.  I didn’t know why, but Dad felt like it and that was reason enough.  We stayed with his parents while house hunting.  Finding a house took a few months longer than expected, and we were able to get to know my grandparents and their surroundings.  One of their surroundings was Zurita.

Zurita lived across the street in a house that had been added onto so awkwardly it looked like Dr. Suess designed it.  Her late husband had done it himself she would tell me proudly, and I didn’t doubt it.  No contractor would forget to put a railing on the stairs.  It didn’t matter anymore if the stairs had railing though, Zurita couldn’t make it up them anyway.  She could hardly make it from her bed to the bathroom. 

Living with my grandparents, I’d see Grandma make regular trips across the street, and return smelling like cigarette smoke.  When I asked her where she’d been she said she’d been to Zurita’s. She offered to let me come next time, and I tagged along.  Every evening for dinner we’d set aside a separate plate of food, and we brought this with us.  My first impression of Zurita’s house was the smell.  Cigarettes overwhelmed the air and added to the dingy walls.  Through the poor lighting I saw her.  She had white hair that stuck upwards and outwards in every direction.  She was overweight in the strangest places with a belly that looked like those malnourished kids in Africa or someone pregnant with twins. Her ankles were the same width as her calves and her skin had a greying tint.  Her breath was raspy and measured evenly by her oxygen tank.  I stood uncomfortably near the door and waited.  It took some time but, eventually, I went back with my grandma.  Each time I would stand further from the door, moving deeper in, extending my comfort zone.  Grandma introduced us and Zurita told me about her grandson.  I smiled politely as she finished her dinner.

I don’t know what originally compelled me to continue my visits, but it became regular.  Gradually Grandma accompanied me less and less, until I began delivering food alone most of the time.  They were usually quick trips, running over Zurita’s plate and hurrying back to start our own dinner as a family.  In these short visits I was able to get to know her.

Her husband was dead and she had one daughter and one grandson.  The only thing she talked about as much as her family was Stinker’s.  Stinker’s was a gas station she had worked at for 25 years.  She showed me her plaque countless times, a plaque thanking her for her years of dedication.  To me, the plaque was depressing.  Working at a gas station for 25 years was not something I would be proud of.  It was more than that though.  For her, Stinker’s was a job, a regular income.  It meant stability, and 25 years meant loyalty.  Another thing she was loyal to was her cigarettes.  I thought for sure she had quit smoking, she was on oxygen for heaven sakes, but I would find her hidden ash tray.  It made me sad to see it, because her condition was getting worse, and there was nothing more I could do.

When preparing her plate, I would pick the prettiest roll and the juiciest meat.  She wouldn’t have noticed otherwise, but she deserved my best.  Cleaning her toilet, caring for and visiting her were something I enjoyed.  I realized it soon enough, it was because I loved her.  Besides hiding her cigarettes, she didn’t pretend to be anyone she wasn’t.  She loved the things she loved, like Stinker’s gas station and Grandma’s homemade rolls.  She had so much to hate in life, but she wasn’t bitter or unkind.  She helped me realize we can find strengths in the most unlikely examples.  It doesn’t matter what your house smells like or how far away your toilet seems from your bed, people deserve love and regular hot meals.  When we serve others we focus on others and not ourselves.  Zurita passed away that year, but not before leaving a mark.  It didn’t take 25 years but definitely deserves a plaque.