现代大学英语精读第二版（第三册）学习笔记（原文及全文翻译）——8B - My Grandmother, the Bag Lady（我的祖母，一位提包女士）

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Unit 8B - My Grandmother, the Bag Lady

My Grandmother, the Bag Lady

Patsy Neal

Almost all of us have seen pictures of old, homeless ladies, moving about the streets of big cities with everything they own stuffed into a bag or a paper sack.

My grandmother is 89 years old, and a few weeks ago I realized with a jolt that she, too, had become one of them. Before I go any further, I had best explain that I did not see my grandmother's picture on TV. I discovered her plight during a face-to-face visit at my mother's house—in a beautiful, comfortable, safe middle-class environment with good china on the table and turkey and chicken on the stove.

My grandmother's condition saddened me beyond words, for an 89-year-old should not have to carry around everything she owns in a bag. It's enough to be 89 without the added burden of packing the last fragments of your existence into a space big enough to accommodate only the minutest of treasures.

Becoming a bag lady was not something that happened to her overnight. My grandmother has been in a nursing home these last several years; at first going back to her own home for short visits, then less frequently as she became older and less mobile.

No matter how short these visits were, her greatest pleasure came from walking slowly around her home, touching every item lovingly and spending hours browsing through drawers and closets. Then, I did not understand her need to search out all her belongings.

As she spent longer days and months at the nursing home, I could not help noticing other things. She began to hide her possessions under the mattress, in the closet, under the cushion of her chair, in every conceivable, reachable space. And she began to think that people were "stealing" from her.

When a walker became necessary, my mother took the time to make a bag that could be attached to it, so that my grandmother could carry things around while keeping her hands on the walker. I had not paid much attention to this bag until we went to the nursing home to take her home with us for our traditional Christmas Eve sharing of gifts.

As we left, my grandmother took her long, unsteady walk down the hallway, balancing herself with her walker, laboriously moving it ahead, one step at a time, until finally we were at the car outside. Once she was safely seated, I picked up her walker to put it in the back. I could barely lift it. Then I noticed that the bag attached to it was bulging. Something clicked, but it still wasn't complete enough to grasp.

At home in my mother's house, I was asked to get some photographs from my grandmother's purse. Lifting her pocketbook, I was surprised again at the weight and bulk. I watched as my mother pulled out an alarm clock, a flashlight, a small radio, thread, needles, pieces of sewing, a book and other items that seemed to have no reason for being in a pocketbook.

I looked at my grandmother, sitting bent over in her chair, rummaging through the bag on the walker, slowly pulling out one item and then another, and lovingly putting it back.

I looked down at her purse with all its disconnected contents and remembered her visits to her home, rummaging through drawers and through closets.

Oh, Lord, I thought with sudden insight. "That walker and that purse are her home now."

I began to understand that over the years my grandmother's space for living had diminished like melting butter—from endless fields and miles of freedom as a child and young mother to, with age, the constrictions of a house, then a small room in a nursing home and finally to the tightly clutched handbag and the bag on her walker.

When the family sent her to a nursing home, it was the toughest decision it had ever had to make. We all thought she would be secure there; we would no longer have to worry about whether she had taken her medicine, or left her stove on, or was alone at night.

But we hadn't fully understood her needs. Security for my grandmother was not in the warm room at the nursing home, with 24-hour attendants to keep her safe and well fed, nor in the family who visited and took her to visit in their homes. In her mind her security was tied to those things she could call her own—and over the years those possessions had dwindled away like sand dropping through an hourglass: first her car, sold when her eyes became bad and she couldn't drive; then some furnishings she didn't really need. Later it was the dogs she had trouble taking care of. And finally it would be her home when it became evident that she could never leave the nursing home again.

But as her space and mobility dwindled, so did her control over her life.

I looked at my grandmother again, sitting so alone before me, hair totally gray, limbs and joints swollen by arthritis, at the hearing aid that could no longer help her hear, and the glasses too thick but so inadequate in helping to see... and yet there was such dignity about her. A dignity I could not understand.

The next day, after my grandmother had been taken back to the nursing home and my mother was picking up in her room, she found a small scrap of paper my grandmother had scribbled these words on:

It is 1:30 tonight and I had to get up and go to the bathroom. I cannot go back to sleep. But I looked in on Margaret and she is sleeping so good, and Patsy is sleeping too.

With that note, I finally understood, and my 89-year-old bag-lady grandmother changed from an almost helpless invalid to a courageous, caring individual still very much in control of her environment.

What intense loneliness she must have felt as she scribbled that small note on that small piece of paper with the small bag on her walker and her small purse next to her. Yet she chose to experience it alone rather than wake either of us from much-needed sleep. Out of her own great need, she chose to meet our needs.

As I held that tiny note, and cried inside, I wondered if she dreamed of younger years and more treasured possessions and a bigger world when she went back to sleep that night. I certainly hoped so.

参考译文——我的祖母，一位提包女士

我的祖母，一位提包女士

帕齐·尼尔

我们几乎都见过那些无家可归的老太太们背着装有全部家当的口袋或纸袋在城市的大街小巷里游荡的画面。

在几个星期前我惊讶地发现，我89岁的祖母也成了“提包女士”中的一员。在我进一步往下叙述之前，我最好先说明我并不是在电视上见到祖母的境况，而是在我母亲家里，一次面对面的接触让我发现了她的苦楚。母亲的家漂亮、舒适、安全，营造着中产阶级的家庭环境——桌子上放着精美的瓷器，炉子上烤着火鸡和鸡肉。

祖母的境况使我伤心得无以言表，因为对于一个89岁的老人而言，实在不应该提着所有的家当四处游荡。能活到这个年纪已经足够了，无须再增加这样一副重担，把自己拥有的最后一点家当塞进足以容纳其微薄资产的包里。

祖母成为一名“提包女士”不是一夜之间的事。这几年她都是在疗养院里度过的，起初她还能回家小住，后来由于年纪越来越大，行动也越来越不方便，她就很少回去了。

无论在家停留的时间有多短暂，她最大的快乐就是在屋子里慢慢地转悠，爱怜地摸摸所有东西，花好几个小时翻看抽屉和衣橱。那时，我还不明白为什么她要翻箱倒柜地找出自己所有的东西。

随着她住在疗养院的日子越来越长，我不经意间发现了一些其他的事情：她开始把她的东西藏在褥垫下、衣橱里、椅垫下，任何她能想到和够得着的地方。她开始认为有人在“偷”她的东西。

到了祖母需要用助步车时，母亲花时间做了一个可以挂在助步车上的提包，这样祖母把手放在助步车上的同时也能带上自己的东西了。在我去疗养院接她回家过分享礼物的平安夜之前，我都没太注意到这个提包。

当我们离开疗养院时，祖母拖着蹒跚不稳的步伐走在长廊里，用手扶住助步车以维持身体的平衡，她费力地推着车子，一次只能走一步，走到了外面的车旁。等她坐稳之后，我拿起助步车准备放在后备箱，我几乎搬不动它。于是我才注意到助步车上系着一个鼓鼓的提包，提包里还有什么东西咯咯嗒嗒地响，但这不足以让我想知道包里装了什么。

回到母亲家后，母亲让我从祖母的包里找些照片出来，提起她的提包，我又一次惊讶于它的重量和大小。我看着母亲从里面拿出一只闹钟、一个手电筒、一个小型收音机、针、线、一些缝补的衣物、一本书和一些别的东西，在别人看来这些东西实在没什么必要放在提包里。

我看着祖母，她弯腰坐在椅子上，在助步车上的提包里翻找着，慢慢地拿出一件又一件东西，然后再爱怜地放回去。

我低头看着她包里所有互不相干的东西，想到她回家时翻寻抽屉和衣橱的情景。

“哦，上帝呀，”我茅塞顿开，“现在那助步车和那个大提包就是祖母的家。”

我开始明白，在过去的几年里，祖母的生活空间像不断融化的黄油般渐渐缩小了。随着年龄的增长，她生活的空间从孩提时或初为人母时自由自在的广阔田野，渐渐变为一幢房子，再到疗养院里一个小小的房间，最后缩小到紧紧抓在手里的提袋和助步车上的提包。

把祖母送进疗养院是全家做出的最艰难的决定。我们都认为她在那里会很安全，我们不必担心她是否吃了药，是否关了火炉，晚上是否一个人在家。

但是我们并没有完全理解她的需求。安全对于祖母来说并不是待在疗养院温暖的房间里、有24小时良好的监护和膳食，也不是家里的人去看望她并带她回家看看。在她看来，她的安全在于她所拥有的东西——几年来，这些东西已经一点一点从她身边消失，像沙漏里一点点流走的沙子：首先是她的车，在她视力下降到无法驾驶时被卖掉了；接着是一些实际上她用不着的家具；后来是那几只她没有能力喂养的狗；最后，当她显然再也无法离开疗养院时，她连房子也不需要了。

但是随着她生活空间的缩小和行动能力的下降，她控制生活的能力也下降了。

我再一次注视着孤独地坐在我面前的祖母，头发已经完全花白了，由于关节炎，她的四肢和关节也变得肿胀，助听器也已对她没什么作用了，镜片尽管已经足够厚，但她仍无法看清东西……然而在她身上仍有一种尊严，一种我无法理解的尊严。

第二天，祖母被送回疗养院后，母亲在整理房间时，发现了祖母随笔写的一张小纸片：

“现在是晚上一点半了，我得起床上厕所，我无法再入睡，我看了一下玛格丽特，她睡得很香，帕齐也在熟睡着。”

看着这张纸片，我终于明白了，我那89岁的祖母，一位“提包女士”，由一个无助的病弱者变成了一位勇敢的、关爱别人的人，她仍然可以很好地把控自己所处的环境。

当她在那张小纸片上写下这些话时，助步车上挂着她的提包，身边放着她的小提袋，那时的她该是多么孤独啊！但她仍选择了独自承受，而不是把我们中的任何一个从熟睡中叫醒。祖母舍弃自己的需求，她选择满足我们的需求。

我握着这张小纸片，悲由心生。我不知道那晚祖母随后入睡时，是否会梦到自己的年轻时代，或者梦到自己拥有更多的财富，梦到一个更广阔的世界，我真心希望她梦到了。

Key Words:

stove [stəuv]

n. 炉子，火炉窑;烘房；【主英】温室

overnight ['əuvə'nait]

n. 前晚