June 24, 2011--Ladies of Forest Trace: More Than Two Lifetimes
Even before we could get to Logan Airport to catch our flight to Ft. Lauderdale to celebrate my mother’s 103rd birthday, she was calling my cell phone.
This was unusual. Like many of her generation, my mother is not comfortable using anything electronic and so I was concerned. “Is everything all right?”
“So where are you already?” she said with a touch of annoyance.
“Near the airport,” I said.
“How many minutes away?”
This seemed like a strange question. But she has been more agitated than usual about almost anything straying from her routines. Understandable, we thought, because 103 is a big number, and she has been expressing anxiety about how many more years are left to her.
“I don’t know, mom, we’re not used to driving from Maine to the airport in Boston. Maybe another . . .”
She interrupted, “Maine? Boston? You told me you’d be in Florida by now.”
How to tell her she was mistaken, that just two days ago I told her our flight schedule and that we wouldn’t be arriving until late afternoon. Maybe even too late to stop by for a brief visit. I didn’t want to remind her of that for fear that she would take it as yet more evidence of the aging process.
So I said, “Sorry, I forgot to give you all the details of our plans. We’ve been so busy getting settled in our summer house that I can’t remember things from one day to the next.”
She chuckled at that, “So you too know what happens to you when you get older. I also sometimes forget things.”
“Not as much as you think,” I said to reassure her.
“You always say things to try to make me feel better. Even made-up things.”
“No, mom, I always tell you the truth,” I lied, “You know that.”
“But that’s not why I called.”
“I thought you called to find out how close we were to Forest Trace?”
“That was only an excuse. I know you’re on the way to the airport.” Now it was her turn not to tell the truth.
“Well good, now we both know where we are and when we’ll get to Florida.”
“I heard something on the TV that disturbed me.”
This was always happening. Every time there was a flood or a tsunami or violence in the Middle East she would sit glued to CNN, watching the Breaking News over and over again, to the point that the tragedy was endlessly magnified.
“Before we left I didn’t hear about any disasters.” The traffic was heavy and I wanted to try to preempt a detailed accounting of whatever happened in Syria overnight or about the latest tornado in the Midwest. There would be enough time for that when we saw her.
“Wolf was talking about Social Security.” Wolf Blitzer is one of her favorites.
“I can imagine. What with all the talk about the deficit.”
“I was surprised to hear that the A& P came out in favor of cutting some benefits. I can’t wait to hear what the ladies will have to say tonight at dinner. I assume you’ll be here in time to join the girls and me.”
“I’m not sure about that mom. We hope to be able to stop by for a brief visit, but then we have to go to Delray to settle into our condo.”
“They have a good menu tonight. Chicken, which is always delicious, and I think they also have stuffed cabbage. I know how Rona loves stuffed cabbage. It comes with a nice tomato sauce.”
“We’ll try, mom. But let’s see if the plane is on time—it’s very foggy and could easily be delayed and that may mean we won’t . . .”
“I know what it means. That I won’t see you until tomorrow or Sunday.”
Trying to change the subject, I asked, “So what did Wolf say about the AARP and Social Security?”
“Right, the AARP, not the A&P. I always mix them up.” She chuckled at her propensity to make malaprops. “He said that they said that since there is such a terrible deficit and people are living so long—even to 103—it may be necessary to do some cutting. Of course all the seniors here are up in arms, worried about their Coca Colas,” she frequently mixes up COLAs, cost of living adjustments, with the soft drink, “and I feel sure that the AAA will change their minds. But if you want my opinion, and don’t say you don’t, I agree that some of our benefits will have to be reduced. For those of us fortunate enough to afford to get less from the government. Actually, from your generation since that’s how Social Security works.”
“Right, because there is no fund of money to pay us. It comes from current workers’ taxes. Remember, I too am old enough to collect.”
It began to rain and I was feeling certain our flight would be delayed; and though dislike being on the cell phone when driving I thought I’d stay on a while longer so we could have a version of a visit.
“One of Wolf’s guests said that when Social Security began—and I remembered when it happened; it was during the Depression--people lucky enough to reach 65 were expected to live only until 70, which would mean that they would collect for only five years. Look at me and the girls. I’m about to be 103 and have been collecting for nearly 40 years. Not five. With the other ladies, who are no quite as old as me but are older than 70 (though half of them would deny it), we’re living so long that we’re personally bankrupting the system. Which means there will be nothing left for anyone’s grandchildren.”
“Now, mom, as usual you’re putting too much responsibility on yourself. Yes, you’ve been getting Social Security for many, many years; but you’re not personally causing the problems we have.”
“Of course I know that. I was just trying to make a point. What I am saying is still true. There have to be changes, though if the Republicans manage to eliminate Medicare people will start to die sooner and the problem may be ‘solved’ that way.”
“That will never happen, mom, the Democrats and the seniors who vote in huge numbers, will fight them all along the way.”
“I’ve seen worse things happen in my lifetime and wouldn’t be surprised to see health care cut way back if we have a double recession.”
“Double-dip.”
“Yes, that. Or worse, if we have another depression. I wouldn’t be surprised by what the Republicans would do.”
“I worry about that too,”
“But what we really need,” she quickly added, again her more characteristically optimistic self, “is not less for those who need help, especially for those who worked so hard all their lives to earn their benefits. Their so-called ‘entitlements.’ What we need is even more generosity for those who are struggling. That’s what a good government should do—be there for those for whom all else has failed and to be sure to preserve and protect what people earned. Not to take things away from them and call them ‘undeserving.’”
Again trying to get her to move on to other, less upsetting subjects, I asked, “So how does it feel to be about to celebrate another birthday?”
“As I always tell you, every day is my birthday. If I feel good, which in general I do. And if I still have most of my mind.” Again she chuckled.
“Much more than most,” I assured her, this time not even needing to fib.
“In the past, when I was born in 1907, life expectancy was about 50. So thus far I’ve lived more than two lifetimes.”
“And as a result, because of all the wonderful and generous things you did and continue to do for all of us, and for all your friends, perhaps you will feel that it is all right that you collected more from your pension than was originally calculated. And remember,” I took the risk to say, not wanting her to begin again to think about mortality, “many aren’t as fortunate as you and do not manage to live long enough to collect anything. From an actuarial perspective . . .”
“Since you brought up the subject . . .”
Regretting that I brought us back to the subject of mortality, I said, “It’s starting to rain hard, mom, and I should probably hang up. After all we hope to see you in a few hours.”
“Drive carefully, darling, but listen to one more story. A nice one.” I was wondering how could there be a nice story about death.
“You know Mayor Bloomingdale?” For a moment I was confused. She sensed that, “From New York.” I knew of course who she meant. “Did you hear all the way up there in Maine—you do have a TV, don’t you—that his mother died last week at 102. Like me she was fine until near the end.”
“You’re not near . . .”
Ignoring me, she pressed on. “He called her every day. He was such a good son. Just like you and your brother and my daughters-in-law.”
“I did hear about her.”
“Did you hear the story he loved to tell about her?”
“I’m not sure I did. Which one? And then I have to get off the phone it’s . . .”
“About when something falls on the floor. Under the table.”
“No, I haven’t heard that one.”
“We’ll, whenever it happened and he bent down to pick it up—a fork or a napkin--she would say, ‘While you’re down there see if there’s anything else you can do.’”
“I love that!”
“Think about him bending down to pick up a spoon. With all his money.”
“About $18 billion.”
“So there must have been a lot more to do down there under the table. That’s what I call a smart mother.”
And with that, and a hearty laugh, she hung up.
This was unusual. Like many of her generation, my mother is not comfortable using anything electronic and so I was concerned. “Is everything all right?”
“So where are you already?” she said with a touch of annoyance.
“Near the airport,” I said.
“How many minutes away?”
This seemed like a strange question. But she has been more agitated than usual about almost anything straying from her routines. Understandable, we thought, because 103 is a big number, and she has been expressing anxiety about how many more years are left to her.
“I don’t know, mom, we’re not used to driving from Maine to the airport in Boston. Maybe another . . .”
She interrupted, “Maine? Boston? You told me you’d be in Florida by now.”
How to tell her she was mistaken, that just two days ago I told her our flight schedule and that we wouldn’t be arriving until late afternoon. Maybe even too late to stop by for a brief visit. I didn’t want to remind her of that for fear that she would take it as yet more evidence of the aging process.
So I said, “Sorry, I forgot to give you all the details of our plans. We’ve been so busy getting settled in our summer house that I can’t remember things from one day to the next.”
She chuckled at that, “So you too know what happens to you when you get older. I also sometimes forget things.”
“Not as much as you think,” I said to reassure her.
“You always say things to try to make me feel better. Even made-up things.”
“No, mom, I always tell you the truth,” I lied, “You know that.”
“But that’s not why I called.”
“I thought you called to find out how close we were to Forest Trace?”
“That was only an excuse. I know you’re on the way to the airport.” Now it was her turn not to tell the truth.
“Well good, now we both know where we are and when we’ll get to Florida.”
“I heard something on the TV that disturbed me.”
This was always happening. Every time there was a flood or a tsunami or violence in the Middle East she would sit glued to CNN, watching the Breaking News over and over again, to the point that the tragedy was endlessly magnified.
“Before we left I didn’t hear about any disasters.” The traffic was heavy and I wanted to try to preempt a detailed accounting of whatever happened in Syria overnight or about the latest tornado in the Midwest. There would be enough time for that when we saw her.
“Wolf was talking about Social Security.” Wolf Blitzer is one of her favorites.
“I can imagine. What with all the talk about the deficit.”
“I was surprised to hear that the A& P came out in favor of cutting some benefits. I can’t wait to hear what the ladies will have to say tonight at dinner. I assume you’ll be here in time to join the girls and me.”
“I’m not sure about that mom. We hope to be able to stop by for a brief visit, but then we have to go to Delray to settle into our condo.”
“They have a good menu tonight. Chicken, which is always delicious, and I think they also have stuffed cabbage. I know how Rona loves stuffed cabbage. It comes with a nice tomato sauce.”
“We’ll try, mom. But let’s see if the plane is on time—it’s very foggy and could easily be delayed and that may mean we won’t . . .”
“I know what it means. That I won’t see you until tomorrow or Sunday.”
Trying to change the subject, I asked, “So what did Wolf say about the AARP and Social Security?”
“Right, the AARP, not the A&P. I always mix them up.” She chuckled at her propensity to make malaprops. “He said that they said that since there is such a terrible deficit and people are living so long—even to 103—it may be necessary to do some cutting. Of course all the seniors here are up in arms, worried about their Coca Colas,” she frequently mixes up COLAs, cost of living adjustments, with the soft drink, “and I feel sure that the AAA will change their minds. But if you want my opinion, and don’t say you don’t, I agree that some of our benefits will have to be reduced. For those of us fortunate enough to afford to get less from the government. Actually, from your generation since that’s how Social Security works.”
“Right, because there is no fund of money to pay us. It comes from current workers’ taxes. Remember, I too am old enough to collect.”
It began to rain and I was feeling certain our flight would be delayed; and though dislike being on the cell phone when driving I thought I’d stay on a while longer so we could have a version of a visit.
“One of Wolf’s guests said that when Social Security began—and I remembered when it happened; it was during the Depression--people lucky enough to reach 65 were expected to live only until 70, which would mean that they would collect for only five years. Look at me and the girls. I’m about to be 103 and have been collecting for nearly 40 years. Not five. With the other ladies, who are no quite as old as me but are older than 70 (though half of them would deny it), we’re living so long that we’re personally bankrupting the system. Which means there will be nothing left for anyone’s grandchildren.”
“Now, mom, as usual you’re putting too much responsibility on yourself. Yes, you’ve been getting Social Security for many, many years; but you’re not personally causing the problems we have.”
“Of course I know that. I was just trying to make a point. What I am saying is still true. There have to be changes, though if the Republicans manage to eliminate Medicare people will start to die sooner and the problem may be ‘solved’ that way.”
“That will never happen, mom, the Democrats and the seniors who vote in huge numbers, will fight them all along the way.”
“I’ve seen worse things happen in my lifetime and wouldn’t be surprised to see health care cut way back if we have a double recession.”
“Double-dip.”
“Yes, that. Or worse, if we have another depression. I wouldn’t be surprised by what the Republicans would do.”
“I worry about that too,”
“But what we really need,” she quickly added, again her more characteristically optimistic self, “is not less for those who need help, especially for those who worked so hard all their lives to earn their benefits. Their so-called ‘entitlements.’ What we need is even more generosity for those who are struggling. That’s what a good government should do—be there for those for whom all else has failed and to be sure to preserve and protect what people earned. Not to take things away from them and call them ‘undeserving.’”
Again trying to get her to move on to other, less upsetting subjects, I asked, “So how does it feel to be about to celebrate another birthday?”
“As I always tell you, every day is my birthday. If I feel good, which in general I do. And if I still have most of my mind.” Again she chuckled.
“Much more than most,” I assured her, this time not even needing to fib.
“In the past, when I was born in 1907, life expectancy was about 50. So thus far I’ve lived more than two lifetimes.”
“And as a result, because of all the wonderful and generous things you did and continue to do for all of us, and for all your friends, perhaps you will feel that it is all right that you collected more from your pension than was originally calculated. And remember,” I took the risk to say, not wanting her to begin again to think about mortality, “many aren’t as fortunate as you and do not manage to live long enough to collect anything. From an actuarial perspective . . .”
“Since you brought up the subject . . .”
Regretting that I brought us back to the subject of mortality, I said, “It’s starting to rain hard, mom, and I should probably hang up. After all we hope to see you in a few hours.”
“Drive carefully, darling, but listen to one more story. A nice one.” I was wondering how could there be a nice story about death.
“You know Mayor Bloomingdale?” For a moment I was confused. She sensed that, “From New York.” I knew of course who she meant. “Did you hear all the way up there in Maine—you do have a TV, don’t you—that his mother died last week at 102. Like me she was fine until near the end.”
“You’re not near . . .”
Ignoring me, she pressed on. “He called her every day. He was such a good son. Just like you and your brother and my daughters-in-law.”
“I did hear about her.”
“Did you hear the story he loved to tell about her?”
“I’m not sure I did. Which one? And then I have to get off the phone it’s . . .”
“About when something falls on the floor. Under the table.”
“No, I haven’t heard that one.”
“We’ll, whenever it happened and he bent down to pick it up—a fork or a napkin--she would say, ‘While you’re down there see if there’s anything else you can do.’”
“I love that!”
“Think about him bending down to pick up a spoon. With all his money.”
“About $18 billion.”
“So there must have been a lot more to do down there under the table. That’s what I call a smart mother.”
And with that, and a hearty laugh, she hung up.
posted by Steven Zwerling at
6:12 AM
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