April 29, 2009--The Ladies of Forest Trace: Pepi
“I know you will be leaving for New York in an hour.” It was my nearly 101 year-old mother calling, I presumed, to wish us a safe trip. For decades this has been a tradition which by now has assumed ritualistic proportions. I know she feels that if she makes a call just before we depart, it will assure that we arrive safely.
“I've been waiting until now to tell you something that happened two weeks ago.” From the tone of her voice, I immediately grew concerned. She has been in remarkably good health, but with someone her age this could change in an instant.
“What’s going on Mom? What’s wrong?”
“I didn’t want to upset you.” She sounded so down in the dumps that I could barely hear her.
“You know we always want to know what’s going on with you. I’ve told you many times not to hold things back from us.”
“I only wanted for you and Rona to have a wonderful time while you’re here in Florida.”
“We did have a wonderful time, but we also want you to tell us when anything is wrong and . . .”
“Nothing is wrong.”
“Then why do you sound so upset?” I assumed she was feeling as blue as we were about our having to leave.
“Upset. That’s the right word for how I’m feeling. Actually, worse than upset.”
“Tell me. Please.”
“You remember Pepi, one of my ladies? She has been at my table for dinner for three years. Poor thing.”
I sensed where this was going—considering the age of the residents at Forest Trace, during the 13 years my mother has lived there dozens, perhaps hundreds have taken seriously ill, needed to move to assisted living, to nursing homes or back with their children, or worse. “So what happened to Pepi, Mom?”
“I didn’t want to tell you until you got home. Back to New York,” she quickly added since she knew we were feeling that Delray Beach was becoming more and more our home.
“That’s OK.”
“I didn’t want to spoil your last days here.”
“Please Mom. I want to know what happened.”
“She died.”
“No!”
“Yes. Two weeks ago. She had been so perfect. We had dinner together, she was so full of life, and then the next morning she didn’t come down for breakfast.”
“I’m so sorry Mom. I know how fond of her you were. Why didn’t you tell us? We would have . . .”
“As I said, you’re here on vacation.”
“No, Mom, we live here during the winter. That’s different than being on vacation. So we . . .”
“You know how I adored her. We worked so closely together during the election. She was the Democrat Party’s representative here. We helped more than 100 of the girls fill out their early ballots. All but two or three of them for Barack Obama. You remember I told you how wonderful she felt when he was elected? How she said that we had exonerated ourselves, after 2000, by helping him win a majority in Florida?”
I did remember that. They had assisted nearly 150 to fill out complicated paper ballots and, in shopping bags, took them to the Broward County election office and turned them in. Many ballots from women who had been born before women were allowed to vote. Many from people who had fought to unionize garment workers. Others from political activists who had marched in the Civil Rights Movement. All, from people who vividly remembered the cruelties of segregation and Jim Crow laws, including dozens who had lived in Florida at a time when blacks were not allowed to remain on Miami Beach after sundown or drink from the same water fountains as whites.
“You know at a time when it was rare for a woman to have a career, Pepi not only taught school, but was one of the first women to become a public school principal in Brooklyn. She was an inspiration at that time and continued to be until the day two weeks ago when she passed away.”
I thought, from the memory of Pepi’s life and death, that I could hear my mother weeping softly. It was not as if death at Forest Trace wasn’t a too familiar daily reality, but Pepi was remarkable. All are special, but Pepi was especially so.
I didn’t know what to say that would be meaningful or helpful, so I simply stammered, “At least she is no longer suffering.”
“She wasn’t suffering. I told you she was fine, how she was her own self until the end, but just didn’t wake up the next morning.”
“So at least she died peacefully, without suffering. You always say that . . .”
Ignoring me, my mother continued, “Even after she retired and moved to Florida with her husband, who died six years ago of Parkinson’s, poor thing, she continued to work in the public schools. As a volunteer. Tutoring children who were behind in reading. A local school used to send a bus here to take volunteers back and forth. But even when they stopped doing that because of budget cuts, Pepi kept going to the school on her own. By car service, which she paid for herself. To tutor one girl, a girl from Haiti who Pepi felt was very gifted; but because she did not yet know adequate English Pepi knew she would fall behind and be forgotten. She saw so much potential in her that even when her arthritis acted up, and it could be very bad, she managed to get herself there. And then when that girl graduated, I think her name was Jeanne, because of Pepi’s help she won an award for excellence in English. Isn’t that something?”
“It really is. What a wonderful final legacy.”
“But Pepi refused to take any credit for this. All she talked about was Jeanne this and Jeanne that. That was Pepi for you.”
“Amazing. She will be long remembered, which is the best . . .”
“And you remember when Barack Obama was in Europe recently?”
“Yes.”
“And Michelle was there with him? She is such a darling. I think they were still in England when Michelle visited a school. For girls, wasn’t it? And the speech she gave. It was a very emotional speech. I think she had tears in her eyes. I could hear it in her voice. How she spoke about how the girls were like jewels waiting to be discovered and appreciated. It was very moving and that night, that last night at dinner Pepi said that that was also true about Jeanne.”
“She was right. And about so many other children who attended her school.”
“And then she went upstairs and never returned. Some Pepi.”
“It’s wonderful, Mom, that you remember her this way. I am sure there are many, many more who could say these kinds of wonderful things about her.”
“Yes, but there are no more Pepi’s here.”
“You’re wrong,” I said, “There is at least one more.”
“Not true.”
“I mean you.”
“Now, you’re making me cry, and here I am holding you up when you want to get started. I really called just to wish you a safe trip. As I always do.”
“But I’m glad you told me about Pepi.”
“Go safely, and in June when you come back for my birthday, come safely.”
“I’m sure we’ll talk before then,” I joked, “Like every day! And, as you always do, you can tell me that the day before we leave.”
“I've been waiting until now to tell you something that happened two weeks ago.” From the tone of her voice, I immediately grew concerned. She has been in remarkably good health, but with someone her age this could change in an instant.
“What’s going on Mom? What’s wrong?”
“I didn’t want to upset you.” She sounded so down in the dumps that I could barely hear her.
“You know we always want to know what’s going on with you. I’ve told you many times not to hold things back from us.”
“I only wanted for you and Rona to have a wonderful time while you’re here in Florida.”
“We did have a wonderful time, but we also want you to tell us when anything is wrong and . . .”
“Nothing is wrong.”
“Then why do you sound so upset?” I assumed she was feeling as blue as we were about our having to leave.
“Upset. That’s the right word for how I’m feeling. Actually, worse than upset.”
“Tell me. Please.”
“You remember Pepi, one of my ladies? She has been at my table for dinner for three years. Poor thing.”
I sensed where this was going—considering the age of the residents at Forest Trace, during the 13 years my mother has lived there dozens, perhaps hundreds have taken seriously ill, needed to move to assisted living, to nursing homes or back with their children, or worse. “So what happened to Pepi, Mom?”
“I didn’t want to tell you until you got home. Back to New York,” she quickly added since she knew we were feeling that Delray Beach was becoming more and more our home.
“That’s OK.”
“I didn’t want to spoil your last days here.”
“Please Mom. I want to know what happened.”
“She died.”
“No!”
“Yes. Two weeks ago. She had been so perfect. We had dinner together, she was so full of life, and then the next morning she didn’t come down for breakfast.”
“I’m so sorry Mom. I know how fond of her you were. Why didn’t you tell us? We would have . . .”
“As I said, you’re here on vacation.”
“No, Mom, we live here during the winter. That’s different than being on vacation. So we . . .”
“You know how I adored her. We worked so closely together during the election. She was the Democrat Party’s representative here. We helped more than 100 of the girls fill out their early ballots. All but two or three of them for Barack Obama. You remember I told you how wonderful she felt when he was elected? How she said that we had exonerated ourselves, after 2000, by helping him win a majority in Florida?”
I did remember that. They had assisted nearly 150 to fill out complicated paper ballots and, in shopping bags, took them to the Broward County election office and turned them in. Many ballots from women who had been born before women were allowed to vote. Many from people who had fought to unionize garment workers. Others from political activists who had marched in the Civil Rights Movement. All, from people who vividly remembered the cruelties of segregation and Jim Crow laws, including dozens who had lived in Florida at a time when blacks were not allowed to remain on Miami Beach after sundown or drink from the same water fountains as whites.
“You know at a time when it was rare for a woman to have a career, Pepi not only taught school, but was one of the first women to become a public school principal in Brooklyn. She was an inspiration at that time and continued to be until the day two weeks ago when she passed away.”
I thought, from the memory of Pepi’s life and death, that I could hear my mother weeping softly. It was not as if death at Forest Trace wasn’t a too familiar daily reality, but Pepi was remarkable. All are special, but Pepi was especially so.
I didn’t know what to say that would be meaningful or helpful, so I simply stammered, “At least she is no longer suffering.”
“She wasn’t suffering. I told you she was fine, how she was her own self until the end, but just didn’t wake up the next morning.”
“So at least she died peacefully, without suffering. You always say that . . .”
Ignoring me, my mother continued, “Even after she retired and moved to Florida with her husband, who died six years ago of Parkinson’s, poor thing, she continued to work in the public schools. As a volunteer. Tutoring children who were behind in reading. A local school used to send a bus here to take volunteers back and forth. But even when they stopped doing that because of budget cuts, Pepi kept going to the school on her own. By car service, which she paid for herself. To tutor one girl, a girl from Haiti who Pepi felt was very gifted; but because she did not yet know adequate English Pepi knew she would fall behind and be forgotten. She saw so much potential in her that even when her arthritis acted up, and it could be very bad, she managed to get herself there. And then when that girl graduated, I think her name was Jeanne, because of Pepi’s help she won an award for excellence in English. Isn’t that something?”
“It really is. What a wonderful final legacy.”
“But Pepi refused to take any credit for this. All she talked about was Jeanne this and Jeanne that. That was Pepi for you.”
“Amazing. She will be long remembered, which is the best . . .”
“And you remember when Barack Obama was in Europe recently?”
“Yes.”
“And Michelle was there with him? She is such a darling. I think they were still in England when Michelle visited a school. For girls, wasn’t it? And the speech she gave. It was a very emotional speech. I think she had tears in her eyes. I could hear it in her voice. How she spoke about how the girls were like jewels waiting to be discovered and appreciated. It was very moving and that night, that last night at dinner Pepi said that that was also true about Jeanne.”
“She was right. And about so many other children who attended her school.”
“And then she went upstairs and never returned. Some Pepi.”
“It’s wonderful, Mom, that you remember her this way. I am sure there are many, many more who could say these kinds of wonderful things about her.”
“Yes, but there are no more Pepi’s here.”
“You’re wrong,” I said, “There is at least one more.”
“Not true.”
“I mean you.”
“Now, you’re making me cry, and here I am holding you up when you want to get started. I really called just to wish you a safe trip. As I always do.”
“But I’m glad you told me about Pepi.”
“Go safely, and in June when you come back for my birthday, come safely.”
“I’m sure we’ll talk before then,” I joked, “Like every day! And, as you always do, you can tell me that the day before we leave.”
posted by Steven Zwerling at
5:30 AM
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