The Stone in Stone Soup

As the story goes, some travelers come to a village carrying nothing more than an empty cooking pot. Upon their arrival, the villagers are unwilling to share any of their food with the hungry travelers. The travelers fill the pot with water, drop a large stone in it, and place it over a fire in the village square. One of the villagers becomes curious and asks what they are doing. The travelers answer that they are making "stone soup", which tastes wonderful, although it still needs a little bit of garnish to improve the flavor, which they are missing. The villager does not mind parting with just a little bit of carrot to help them out, so it gets added to the soup. Another villager walks by, inquiring about the pot, and the travelers again mention their stone soup, which has not reached its full potential yet. The villager hands them a little bit of seasoning to help them out. More and more villagers walk by, each adding another ingredient. Finally, a delicious and nourishing pot of soup is enjoyed by all.

Like all fables and children’s stories, this one has a lesson; cooperation. The point of this particular story for our purposes, however, is that the stone is a lifeless, unpleasant thing to have in a pot surrounded by fantastic and delicious ingredients and flavors. Eleanor is the stone in Stone Soup.

Eleanor has so many wonderful people in her life, right down to the visiting nurses that come to the house to give provide her with the proper medical care she needs in order to continue sitting around being a stone. She often gets phone calls from very pleasant sounding people, some with Canadian accents, others with jolly Irish accents; she very rarely actually wants to talk to these people. She doesn’t mind visitors, but for no longer than half an hour. Anything over an hour she considers to be “rude.”

A couple of weeks ago, Janie, Eleanor’s niece, came by for a visit bringing her young daughter, age 6, with her. Eleanor had been looking forward to a visit from Janie for weeks since she had returned home from the hospital. During these weeks she would quietly build a small pile of things on the dining room table; a table that she uses for anything but dining. Melanie and I would sometimes use it to play Magic: The Gathering, a card game she has addicted me to, or to eat our own meals once in a while. Whenever we would eat on the dining room table, Auntie Eleanor would exhibit behavior that was a combination of both anger and confusion; she didn’t know why we would ever eat on the dining room table, and she was angry that we would even consider it. Usually we have to move a pile of envelopes, home shopping catalogues and a pile of notepads and post-its. These envelopes and post-its were very important as she uses an entire page to write down a single number that she needs, which she gets from her handwritten phone book, because simply dialing the number from the phonebook itself is just… well it just isn’t done.

During one of these table clearings, we had moved two stuffed animals that she had sitting on one of the chairs. When she walked by the chair and seen it empty, she immediately started to get nervous and accused us of throwing them away. I calmly pointed to their new spot on the couch, which rather than apologize for the accusation, she turned her anger to wanting them on the chair, uncaring of our needs for the chair. So the usual cycle of her impractical wants and our logical contradictions to those wants ensued and ended with us just giving in and putting the damn stuffed rabbits back on the chair. (NOTE: It’s important to remember that she accused us of throwing them out here.)

When Janie finally came to visit, Auntie gave her young daughter the two stuffed rabbits and a pile of other things she just didn’t want anymore, but she also gave Janie pictures of herself and her daughter that Janie had once given her. Sue informed me that, despite the absolute rudeness of this gesture, she does it a lot. In some way, it makes sense; rather than throw these sentiments out, passing them on would be the kindest thing you could do with them, rather than the social contract’s well established rule that we throw these things out without anyone knowing. However, Auntie has been doing this since she’s turned 75.

“What am I going to do with these things?” She rhetorically asks me when I point out how what she’s doing could be perceived as rude. “There’s no point in keeping them.” She adds as she then puts up pictures of people she prefers to look at, most commonly her beloved handyman, who will soon have his own chapter in our story. So when she gives pictures back, what she’s actually saying is “I’m tired of looking at you and I have pictures of other people I’d prefer to see that I need to put up. I need the space.”

Janie stayed for almost 2 hours, well over Auntie Visiting Capacity. AVC, as it’s known. Eleanor never once considered asking her to leave. She could have simply said, “I’m sorry, I’m not feeling well, I need to lay down.” (On second thought, that’s not possible as it contains the phrase “I’m sorry.”) And I’m sure Janie would have ended her visit. During Janie’s visit, Eleanor’s cousin came for an unexpected visit and brought Eleanor a cooked chicken because, well, why not? Who doesn’t want a random cooked chicken? Jerks, that’s who. Half an hour later both Janie and Eleanor’s cousin left. As soon as they drove off, Eleanor turned to look at us with the speed of a scared chinchilla and quipped, “she stayed too long!” She said it in the same way a diver would gasp for air after going for a world record in deep water swimming. She had clearly wanted to say that for a while. “And thank God she took those animals. I was going to throw them out if she didn’t,” as if she was saving the stuffed animals from a horrible fate, like the manager of a pound. “Well it’s a good thing someone adopted those animals before their 10^th day here because if they didn’t I was going to put them down.” Bare in mind that this is the same woman who actually enjoys killing chipmunks. We had told her that we would have given the toys away but she kept insisting that they could only be thrown away if Janie’s daughter didn’t want them. (Remember the note I asked you to keep in mind earlier about her accusing us of throwing them out?) This is not the first time her plan to throw something out had interfered with her naturally cultivated desire to keep and horde things.

Auntie wasn’t looking forward to having Janie visit to spend time with her; she was looking forward to a visit from Janie because it meant she could unload some of her crap onto her, pictures included. Eleanor Brophy may not want a lot of things she has, but she’s hardwired not to throw anything out, I know this because I once found a chocolate bar from 1978 in her cabinet and she told me it might still be good when I tried to throw it out. This mentality, it seems, only applies to things that she acquires herself. When she was discharged from the hospital after her stroke, she returned home to a few baskets of flowers and a potted plant; one from her lawyer, one from her nephew Kevin, and a few from other relatives- 5 in total. Two days later she told me to throw them out, as she has no “need” for them and she didn’t like them. She vocally spewed out an acid filled rant about how she doesn’t understand why people give flowers to other people when they’re sick or in recovery; I didn’t dare ask about romantic interests. She also wondered why people would give her flowers; she only has the biggest flower garden in the town and it’s shaped around her house like a protective moat, why would anyone think she might like flowers? There’s simply nothing to base that opinion on, it’s just insane.

If one were to look at this previous example, one would find a very fundamental insight into the way Eleanor Brophy’s mind works. She likes flowers, but has no “need” of them within her own house, only on the outside. And those flowers outside surround the house. So what does this say? She surrounds herself with pleasant things but only wants to look at them from the outside looking in rather than the inside looking out? Are these flowers only superficial? We can’t say she doesn’t care about them because we’re reminded every day how they’re not as good as they could be because she can’t work on the garden herself. Flowers in the house bring joy, they’re something nice to look at and just something nice. I love bringing Melanie flowers and she loves having them around. Auntie, it seems, does not.

But the aesthetic theory isn’t exactly it, as the massive garden is potentially a grand contradiction. Perhaps there is another explanation though; the theory that she’ll only hang on to something based on how much she likes you. Cards and flowers are usually thrown out after a week, although flowers are lucky to make it five days. For her birthday Melanie and I gave her flowers, because she didn’t want anything, but we felt we had to get her something. We spent a good quid on those flowers. Her handyman came by the house sometime later in the day and brought her a smaller, more modest, if not cheaply made, bouquet. A dozen Roses vs. six Carnations. Both were placed on the kitchen table. Every time she would sit at the table she would pull the Handyman’s flowers forward and push ours back. Two days later, she wanted to throw ours out and keep his, even though most of his had died and ours were still flourishing. She really does like her Handyman.

During another visit from Rosemary, her wonderfully fun niece on her late husband Jim’s side, Eleanor had told us that she doesn’t want two small, ceramic flower pots that had been sitting on her front porch.

“I have no use for them.” She said. (Which is incorrect, because she has MANY flowers that could use a home.)

“Do you want me to put them in the attic?” I asked her.

“Well I don’t know.” She said.

“Do you want me to throw them out?” I asked.

“Well, I don’t know.”

“Auntie, you either want these or you don’t. You’re always complaining about how you think we put stuff somewhere and you don’t know where it is, if you don’t decide where you want them, we’re going to put them somewhere, or you can decide to throw them out, which is it?” asked Melanie.

She wasn’t able to make a decision and was seemingly upset when we continued to pressure her into making one. She knew for a fact she didn’t want them, but she didn’t know if she wanted to throw them out or keep them in the attic. If they were in the attic, she’d still have them, a matter of fact that she didn’t agree with. Out of sight, out of mind (sometimes). Eventually I just said, “I’ll just throw them out.” And left the room with both of them. They were nice flowerpots, and good sized ones for most common plants, so rather than toss them in the trash, I put them into her garage. She has had this same internal conflict over more than a dozen things; platters, bowls, vases, plates, etc. and each time she’ll want them gone, then the next day ask where they are.

Rosemary usually visits on Saturdays, a day that Melanie has off, so sometimes we’ll go grocery shopping together while she sits with Auntie. Point in fact, that woman is an absolute joy. Even we look forward to visits from her. Auntie has yet to say that Rosemary has stayed too long at any point, but I know it’s floating around up there in her ancient skull.

I often find myself wondering how someone surrounded by such wonderful people and the means to live life any way she wants to could be so outstandingly miserable. How is it that she continues to have all of these great people visit time and time again, even after she’s rude to them? 

Her view of visitors isn’t just limited to just her visitors, it also encompasses ours. Months before we moved in with her, we had made plans with our friend, Josh, to come visit us for the 4^th of July (During which time we would make a short video series called “Sad Tranny.” – YouTube it. Seriously. Do it.) Josh stayed for 3 days. In those 3 days Auntie began to treat him as anything but a guest and not only asked him to do several things for her when we weren’t around but also frequently asked when he planned on leaving.

Last Saturday I went to back to Rhode Island to help a friend shoot a video. During the time I was gone Mel had arranged for her friend Sarah to come by and keep her company. I like to think of this as a preventative measure, as I believe if Mel were to ever spend more than three hours alone with Auntie, one of them would murder the other. Sarah, being as pleasant as sunshine, entered the house, immediately introduced herself to Eleanor and showered her with genuine compliments about the house and the garden. Auntie, who is as susceptible to flattery as Superman is to Kryptonite, couldn’t help but like her. Sarah and Mel spent about 3 hours in our room watching a film and eating lunch. Auntie did not encounter them once and maintained her perch on the porch, keeping an eye out for any trouble or undesirables, at least that’s what I keep telling myself about her interest in sitting on the porch in a manner that deliberately keeps her hidden from those looking in when in actuality she’s an amazingly nosey busybody that would make Gladys Kravitz, and even my mother, turn red.

This attitude of disdain also extends to phone calls. Auntie never picks up the phone. Ever. We have to do it for her. Even before we moved in she barely picked it up. She could never be called upon, but she could call upon you. Melanie has four pets at her parents’ home in North Smithfield, each of whom she had given a personality to. The only female is a feisty Bichon that Mel has personified as an exiled princess who never got the memo of her own banishment. In actuality, I believe that Eleanor fits that description a bit more.

The only phone calls Eleanor looks forward are those from her friends back on Prince Edward Island in Canada, but even those hallowed communications have restrictions; never during Wheel of Fortune (Auntie’s dementia allows for her to refer to this show as “Dateline”). Sometimes, not always, but sometimes, people will call during Wheel of Fortune and Auntie will reluctantly take the call. Keep in mind that she could simply not accept the phone call or call them back, which I do remind her of whenever it happens, but she accepts anyway, only to complain later, which reinforces my belief that she loves complaining; the feeling that she knows better than you. I believe this to be the closest the woman has ever come to actual pleasure as I can sometimes see her eyes glaze over with delight when it happens, no matter how hard she tries to hide her enjoyment in ridicule.

“Why do people always call when I’m watching Dateline? Don’t they know any better?” she’ll ask.

One day, being sick of hearing that question and never answering, I broke the cycle of selective silence and answered back, “No, Auntie, I don’t think they do. Have you ever told them not to call you during Wheel of Fortune?”

“Well no.” She replied.

“Then how the Hell do you expect them to know?”

There’s no way she could have an actual answer to that question, I thought. There’s just no way.

“… they just should.” Well, there you have it. There’s your answer Raz… they just should. Just like we should just know things about her house and her routine and likes and needs without her telling us and understand why she’s upset with us when we don’t follow her unspoken plans. People should just know things, like what happens when you combine Mercury and Chlorine, or what time the Winnipeg Local makes it’s last stop, or how far up your ass is too far to shove that stick.

As for Melanie’s friend Sarah, when she left, she said her goodbyes to Eleanor and Eleanor returned the gesture with a smile, telling her to “comeback anytime.” I later returned home to Mel after a long day of filming in small spaces filled with July heat and asked her how her day was; everything was fine. I then asked Auntie how her day was.

“Oh just fine, I suppose. Melanie had a friend come by… she stayed too long.” She said. This phrase now haunts my dreams, but who knows, maybe that’s how Earth feels about Eleanor. Then again, stones do have their place in the Earth, usually best kept under 6 feet of dirt.