Bud's story is worth remembering

Well-meaning folks in county government are kicking around their concerns about Jay County Retirement Center.

They wonder:

•Is it cost-effective?

•Has it outlived its usefulness in the 21st century?

•Do the numbers make sense?

•Should this even be a function of local government at all?

•When most counties have abandoned their “county homes” and their “poor farms,” does it make sense for Jay County to continue?

•And what policies should be in place when someone from outside Jay County wants to become a resident there?

I listen to those debates, which have been pretty thoughtful so far, and what I think of is Bud.

Bud was a character, and when he and his wife Lucy were together they were amusing, infuriating, dependable and a little goofy, usually all at the same time.

Bud and Lucy were motor route drivers for The Commercial Review, and they were usually dependable and amusing when they weren’t being infuriating.

Eventually, we had to end their independent contractor relationship with the paper because they’d become significantly less dependable and more infuriating than anyone had time for.

But ultimately they were pretty good folks, and we stayed in touch.

When Lucy was admitted to a local nursing home, I made sure she received the newspaper. I stopped in now and then, and I grabbed a nice anniversary photo for the two of them when they reached some milestone.

After Lucy’s passing, Bud was adrift, then he also ended up in a nursing home. My visits were intermittent. Bud was irascible at all times. And he seemed to expect it as a given that he’d receive a complimentary subscription to the paper.

Then something happened.

His health got better. A nursing home no longer made sense.

But there wasn’t a clear alternative.

That’s when he became a resident of Jay County Retirement Center.

And it was as if a drowning man had been thrown a lifesaver. He loved the place.

I visited him there once to see how he was doing. We were still “comping” him on the newspaper, and I learned that Bud was using his copy of the paper while courting another resident.

He’d read the paper, then share it with his “friend” each day.

For Bud, the retirement center had become home, a far better home than he would have had otherwise.

But then the inevitable bureaucracy intervened.

For reasons I’ve never been able to figure out, Bud was moved out of the retirement center and into a subsidized apartment complex for the elderly.

He called one day from there to complain about his newspaper delivery. (Bud’s usual tone was that of complaint. You got used to it.)

So I took him a paper.

I found him in a room that was undeniably larger than his quarters at the retirement center. But he was alone. Alone in the dark.

A TV yammered away while we talked. But all of the warmth and friendships he’d had at the retirement center were gone. There was no girlfriend. There was no contact as far as I could tell with most of the outside world.

I gave him his paper. We talked a bit about Lucy. She’d always been a favorite of mine.

But when I left him, he was alone.

Any scrap of dignity he’d had was gone. Any connection with the community he’d lived his life in was gone.

Call it what you want — “county home,” “poor farm,” “retirement center” — that 19th century relic now the focus of local officials had provided something Bud didn’t get anywhere else.

To me, that’s worth remembering as these conversations go forward.