September 18, 2014--Ladies of Forest Trace: Briefly Noted

These days I call my mother at least once a day.

For decades, we used to speak on Sundays. At precisely 12:00. She loved to demonstrate that she was in command of all her faculties by dialing at the stroke of noon, feeling especially proud of herself on those two time-change Sundays a year when we leapt forward or fell back. Those calls always began with a proud, self-satisfied chuckle.

But now that she is nearly three months past 106 and losing stamina and concentration, since I want as much of her as I had in the past when our conversations would last an hour or so, now my seven to ten calls a week add up to about that amount of time. I also know that we're nearing . . .

I want the time together, just being with her, but also to hear her very-late-in-life thoughts.

*   *   *

"Very bad today."

"I can hear. Your breathing sounds labored."

"Labored . . . that's a good word . . . for me."

When I could sense her almost panting I would chatter away to fill the space, to relieve her of the need to hold up her end of the conversation.  "I spoke with Estelle as she sounded good. She is liking where she's living. Making lots of new fiends and--"

"She visited. . . . That was good. . . . She didn't stay long. Which is also good. I can't entertain like--"

"You know you don't have to do that," I interrupted, "Your visitors just want to be with you. Estelle tells me that her favorite thing is just to sit with you, not talk, and hold your hand."

"She's a sweetheart."

*   *   *

"Today I'm feeling unhappy."

She says this rarely, never wanting to upset me, members of the family, or any of her many friends, so I was concerned.

"Any reason?"

"Many. . . . Too many."

"Tell me one." Her breathing was strong and she sounded to be in good form so I decided to ask rather than attempt to change the subject, to try to save her from unnecessary aggravation.

"Israel."

"I think I know--"

"Maybe you do. Maybe you don't."

"So tell me."

"I'm trying to." Her feistiness pleased me. A glimmer of how she had been in the past, over the years.

"Tell me."

"They need to build those houses?"

"In the West Bank?"

"There. After what they did to the children, in their schools in Geezer." I didn't correct her. "I know Gaza. Gaza. I still have some marbles."
"Indeed you do."
"It's a shonda."

No correction needed.

*   *   *

She surprised me by calling a little past noon on Sunday. As in the past, she chuckled at her ability to still do that. I thought to be only 10 minutes "late" was wonderful. Actually, amazing.

"I just wanted to hear your voice," she said, sounding weak. "Call me later. . . . Tonight. You'll be up?" 

Night for her is 6:30 when she gets ready for bed.

"I think I will be. I'll call you then."

"My love to you."

That's all I ever need to hear.

*   *   *

When I called, she asked, "Can you tell me what to think about IRIS?"

"I think you mean ISIS."

"IRIS, ISIS, or whatever Barack Obama calls them."

"For some reason he insists on calling them ISIL."

"I thought I heard that in his speech. My hearing aid batteries were getting weak so I couldn't listen to everything."

"Please, Mom, change them whenever this happens. It's so important to hear--"

"Do you know how much they cost? The batteries?"

"Thankfully you can afford to change them whenever you need to. That's one thing you shouldn't scrimp--"

"Let's change the subject. Batteries are not what I wanted to talk about. Before I have to lie down, tell me about them. Call them whatever you like."

"I'm no authority but they are a very violent jihadist group that wants to take control of much of Syria, Iraq, and who knows what else."

"And kill everyone who stands in their way?"

"I'm afraid so." I was concerned about the direction of this upsetting conversation so close to her bedtime. She has trouble enough sleeping through the night. But she persisted.

"Obama wants to bomb them?"

"I'm not sure he wants to. I think it's as much the political pressure he is feeling to do something."

"Something I can understand but bombing, which will lead to sending boys there, no? First bombing, then boots."

"So what should he do? What should we do? America?"

"What, we did so wonderful in Iraq? In Afghan? Before that in Vietnam? It's always the same story."

"I think you need your rest."

"As your father used to say, 'Rest is for later.'"

I of course knew what he meant.

"You know what he meant?"

I whispered, "I do."

*   *   *

"Morty asked me--he knows how old I am."

She is both proud of the number and vain. So to men, especially, she is reluctant to acknowledge she is more than 106. "He asked, 'Over your very long life, what is the most important thing that happened?'"

"That's a good question. What did you say?"

"I said it's not the things that were discovered and invented. Not cars or airplanes or radio or TV. Or even the medicines that are keeping him and me alive."

"So what did you say?" I wanted to move her along. These days if she unwinds stories slowly, as she enjoys doing, she runs out of gas before she gets to the conclusion.  

"Not the rockets or going to the moon. Not all the civil rights. Not the end of the Russians."

"You mean the end of communism?"

"Thank you, that's what I meant. Important yes. Also defeating the Nazis. Hitler. But that is not most important and Morty, who has a fine education and was principal of a big high school in the Bronx, wanted the most important."

"And?" I could hear she was beginning to flag.

"Women."

"Women?"

"Yes. All the things that happened to them. To us. Voting, unions--my older sisters worked for both of those. How many doctors did you know when you were a boy?"

"You mean women doctors?"

"Yes. And lawyers and scientists and on TV--on the news--and senators and governors. I never believed I would see this in my lifetime. I had to live this long for that."

"It is wonderful."

"How long have there been men and women?"

"Homo sapiens? About 200,000 years. But I know you mean more recently. How long have men and women lived in societies, in cities, in civilizations?

"All of that. That's thousands of years too?"

"Yes. Maybe 10,000."

"And during all that time, almost everywhere, women were 'second-class citizens,' as your father used to say." She laughed remembering that.

"That's true."

"So nothing changed more than that. As I said to Morty, nothing more important."

"I agree."

"I saw most of this happen. In my lifetime. Which is a very long one, but I'm not thousands of years old." She paused. "Though some days I feel like I am. . . . But not today."

"Why not today?"

"I saw Hillary's speech in Iowa. I mean on the TV. Did you?"

"Yes. I thought she did well."

"So all I have to do is live until I'm 108 to see her become president. Then I'll be happy. . . . And ready."