I was reading Anne of Avonlea to Mrs. Hemming on Sunday afternoon when Jake Monteague, manager of the retirement home, stopped by for a chat.
“How’ve you been, Ben?” he asked, pulling up a chair to join us in the corner where we sat.
“I’m fine, thank you, Mr. Monteague.” He was an African-American gentleman, very distinguished and finely made with more degrees than I thought possible for someone his age. The man was only thirty-five, after all. Still, he managed to be down to earth and approachable for us lesser mortals.
“We always appreciate your visits,” he continued. “I know the residents enjoy hearing your voice when you read those stories. Brightens their day, doesn’t it, Mrs. Hemming?”
The older woman he addressed smiled broadly, her face wreathed with wrinkles. “Oh it’s an absol
