From the moment I saw Enid, I knew I was going to like her. Not necessarily like in a "let's be best friends" way. More like her in a "My, what fun huge pointy rhinestone-rimmed sunglasses you're wearing!" way. I was sent to visit Enid as part of my job at a non-profit that matches volunteers with isolated senior citizens. My co-workers gave me the heads up that Enid was very intelligent and often personable, but had the tendency to get paranoid and angry. My love for crotchety old folks was what led me to the job in the first place, so I felt ready.

When I entered her apartment, Enid was sitting in the dark, in the corner of the living room in an old mold-green chair, sporting a floral muumuu and the aforementioned rhinestone glasses. The familiar old lady scent (a mix of talcum powder, dentures and saggy skin), along with Enid in her chair and a table with a small radio on it, were the only things filling the room. I introduced myself, in the friendliest way I could muster up.

Enid said, in a matter-of-fact manner, with a southern accent, "Well, hello. Thank you for coming. Where did you go to college?"

I sat on the edge of the table, and proceeded to answer Enid's litany of questions about my background and education. Enid and I talked for over an hour about sociology, theology and the state of American education. Just when I was thinking, "This gal knows her stuff", she said, "The po-lice shoot lasers under my doors at night." That's precisely how our conversations went from then on. Discussions about education and politics were peppered with details of Enid's paranoid hallucinations.

For the most part, Enid kept to herself aside from the few friends she had from my agency and a couple people she knew at church. She came to our office to help with our newsletter mailing, carefully placing labels on envelopes with her special finger measurement method and yelled at people who dilly dallied and held up the process. Occasionally she'd get relaxed at a luncheon and do a special dance with her walking stick. Much of my quality time with Enid was spent taking her to medical appointments. One day we sat next to each other, in silence, in a crowded doctor's waiting room for what seemed like hours. I was apathetically flipping through a year old issue of Ladies Home Journal, when Enid yelled, "I thank God I do not have the squirts!"

For some unknown reason I was able to keep my chuckles to an inaudible level and managed to utter, "I think we all

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