May 27, 2020--Mike Stevens: Empty Calendar Depression

Take a look at the email exchange I had recently with a good Maine friend, Mike Stevens. It's about, what else, aging. It begins with my note to him--

To Mike

Word filtered all the way to the Epicenter, New York City, that you have or had something with which I am all too familiar-- diverticulitis  I hope that for you it's in the past tense as I know it can be wicked unpleasant. And I hope you have been otherwise well and are enjoying the reemergence of spring.

Spring with the virus. 

I could take a pass on that combination. We all could. But in truth living here in New York City in a version of quarantine the past 3-4 months isn't so different from the way we normally live our lives. So for us, we are blessed, it has been more inconvenient than perilous. Though we have lost a few friends and family members. 

Illness and death thus feel pervasive even though we continue to feel well. It takes someone much smarter than me to figure it out, to make sense of it. Assuming that is in fact possible.

As I mentioned, I hope you are OK  and that you and Mary have been doing as well as possible.

We do not as yet have firm Maine plans. We had been hearing, though not universally, that as "people from away" we will not be welcomed. As we do not want to affront anyone, we have to think about the right way to make plans to live a version of our traditional Maine lives.

But we hope to figure it out. One thing that would certainly be nice would be the chance to see you both.

From Mike to Steven--

Hi Steven

    

Thanks for checking in.  It took a long time, but I am now recovered from the diverticulitis.  It was not fun!  I still find my energy level is a little low, but I am basically fine.

     

Like you two, Mary an I are finding we do not spend our days in ways that are terribly different from the usual.  We feel very fortunate to have such a pleasant place to stay at home in.  I do, though, complain a little about “empty calendar depression.”  

Usually I ask Mary each evening, “What’s on the calendar for tomorrow?”  She checks and often mentions a meeting or an appointment or a get-together with friends.  Now it’s always, “Nothing.” Hardly a reason to get up the next morning. 

    

Still, unlike you, we have lost no family members or friends to the virus, so we count ourselves lucky.  You have our sympathy.  I find myself yearning for someone who would unify us all in a time of mourning, but we seem sadly lacking in national leadership these days.

    

Out of staters are beginning to make their way back to Maine.  If you are willing to observe the governor’s request that you observe a two-week quarantine when you get here, I think you would be welcome. Year-round residents appreciate that effort.  

We would be happy to help by delivering groceries and any other necessary supplies to your house once you arrive.  We’re good at social distancing.

    

Again, thanks for being in touch.             

Peace!

April 22, 2019--From Lynne Roth On Navigating Life

I thought you might like to see Lynne Roth's comments about two of my recent postings (the one about the human kindness I have been experiencing as I grow older in New York City; the other my plea to Nancy Pelosi to come home from her visit to Ireland, feeling we desperately need her leadership now).

Skim over Lynne's comments about me and hopefully agree that what she wrote is well worth reading.

Lynne is a remarkable person who often seems to understand me, the inner me, better than I. 

Steven

We all lament that life is about choices. This is a message from one of your fans. Were you to have a fan club, count me in.  Rona would be president because she does an excellent job of keeping you going. She keeps you wound up and nurtured with her many talents.

Your blogs are guides to navigating life. Your blogs are like peering through windows of the world. Your blogs are stories of life past, present and sometimes the future. 

Yesterday's blog provided insight into the joys of aging. It reassured me that respect and courtesy have not been pounded out of all citizens. While we live through some gloomy times in this divisive era it is nice to learn of those willing to share their kindness. There you stood in a remnant of a business that still manages to provide a single slice of pizza. The woman that snatched your soda and helped you open the can so you could enjoy a slice of the good old days.

As you wandered through the transit system you found some fellow travelers not glued to and glazed over an electronic device. They were still alert enough to provide a space for you to rest and let your body catch up to your mind. You gave me hope.

For too long Trump has received pardon after pardon as the reality show of an American president in training unfolded. He tried to trick us into believing all those people he hired were the best. When he had a tantrum(s) he tweeted to the highest hills "You're fired" but could not go into the next room and tell them they were history.

Then there is another part of history. Could it be possible that  Nancy is busy at a seminar? Listening and learning first  hand from those who fought  and struggled to keep their country from having a "come apart," as they say in the south. I too was annoyed to learn Nancy was out of the country. How could she abandon us at a time like this?  At least she wasn't at ribbon cutting ceremonies of a golf course, department store, or hotel encrusted with her name.  

Perplexed, gazing down at the swamp, watching the reptilians retreat I anxiously hope Congress will pick up the scent, rally the forces and battle those entities trying to shred our Constitution and destroy democracy.

Sacrificing lambs, huddling and praying "this too shall pass" is not a solution.  Neither is attemping to convince a group of believers that the Easter bunny is a hoax.  The landscape is littered with colorful distractions and candidates.

While many are celebrating their religious holidays I hope a plan is developed. There must be some who linger with the strength to survive, corner the obnoxious and defeat those hell bent on destroying the nation. It's either change now or figure out how we hunker down to watch another episode of history repeat itself. 

I really hope Nancy has a scheme to drag us all out of the swamp. Does she have the magic? 

Be well and tell me another story Steven. 

Please.

April 18, 2019--A Lot Of Nice

There's a very good pizza-by-the-slice joint we like on Sixth Avenue and 8th Street.

It's a hole-in-the-wall kind of place that used to be common in New York City until rents soared and small spaces were absorbed by big places to become drug stores and banks.

But this pizzeria hangs on because the rent is still manageable and somehow they are able to survive by charging just a dollar a slice. And so it's packed. Especially midday when mainly blue collar workers show up, leaving their vans double and triple parked, to run in to grab a couple of slices and a can of Coke, also one dollar.

But mainly people crowd in because the pizzas come right out of the oven and they are not just hot but delicious.

We were in there the other day and it wasn't packed, which is unusual. So I was able to squeeze into a place at the counter by the cash register. Rona slipped me a couple of slices and a can of Coke. She waved off a chance to have a spot of her own at the counter, preferring as a true New Yorker, to eat while standing. I no longer have the balance to do that without winding up with mozzarella dripping on my shirt. 

The can of Coke was not opened and I struggled to pop the tab. My PD at times makes this a challenge.

Pressed next to me was a tiny women whose head barely cleared the counter top. 

Without a word, she reached for my soda, which confirmed my suspicion that there was something strange about her. She snatched the Coke from the counter and I decided not to try to get it back and start what I was sure would turn into an argument. Just eat my slices and leave, I thought. I really didn't need the soda. So I turned to concentrate on my slices.

At the same moment I felt her poking my back. When I turned to look at her, really to glare at her for interfering with my eating, she pointed to the can of Coke.

"Drink, drink," she said, smiling, extending the Coke toward me, "Open, open," she said.

I realized, seeing me struggle with it, she had opened it for me. How I missed what she was doing. I felt ashamed not to understand.

Later that day we found ourselves on the number 6 subway. The car was crowded, not a seat available, but without  even looking directly at me a young man jumped from his seat and gestured that I should take it. I waved him off but he insisted. And so I sat.

Next to me was a woman who got up from her seat so Rona could sit next to me. Reluctantly, Rona took it.

Still later we needed to take the Broadway bus from 23rd Street. Again, all seats were taken but this time a middle-age women with three bulging shopping bags got up to give me her seat. I took it only after she allowed me to hold the bags on my lap.

The three of off it turned out got off at the same stop and when I said I'd take her bags for her she insisted she'd prefer to carry them. 

She got off first with Rona following and me trailing.

Standing on the street, encumbered again by her bags, she held the door for me and offered me a hand as I gingerly approached the steps. I took her hand.

Walking to out apartment, I asked Rona what was going on. "New York is a gruff place, not known for acts of kindness."

"Maybe as you're getting older you're looking a bit fragile," Rona said, smiling. "Or it could be at this less than compassionate time people are pushing back by being especially nice."

"Could be," I said, "But maybe it's more because I am getting visibly older."

"Could be," Rona said. 

She put her arm around me as we walked slowly up the street.

December 15, 2017--Snowbirding: Half & Half (Originally Posted April10, 2014)

Parking at Walmart in Delray is more likely to get Rona and me spatting than even my tentative approach to left turns.

For example, yesterday--

"You park like an old man."

"I'm just trying to be cautious. With people backing in and out and others pushing shopping carts in the roadway, I think it's smart to be extra careful."

"I think the way you park is the way old men park."

That would be enough to get us not talking to each other and leave me on my own--as I then was--to creep up and down the aisles looking for a space that I could squeeze into that wasn't filled with abandoned shopping carts.

Then yesterday, making matters worse, there was a truly old man in the road along which I was waiting to pounce on an empty space. He was attempting to navigate in a motorized wheelchair in the basket of which was stashed a folded walker. At least he was going in the right direction.

"I wonder what he's doing," I said, knowing Rona was ignoring me and I was in effect talking to myself. "I can't believe he's looking for a car. From the looks of him they shouldn't even let him drive one of these electric scooters." I was aggravated and not feeling compassionate.

"He's probably . . . can't . . . This makes me . . . I don't know." That was Rona sputtering to herself.

"What did you say?" I was hoping to break the ice by having us talk about someone with even more driving issues than I.

"He's probably a Silver Alert person." Puzzled, I looked toward Rona. "You know, someone who has Alzheimer's, or something, who wandered off and the police and his family are looking for him. This makes me crazy. I think of myself as understanding and empathetic but this is . . ."

"You are. You are." I thought if I said it emphatically Rona would believe me and we could resume being civil to each other.

"Look. He found his car. Can you believe it? He's trying to get into it. He can't drive a scooter, but a car?"

I sighed in agreement.

"You know I love being here and I love you, but I'm glad we're heading north at the end of the week. I need a dose of New York. And I know--you don't have to say it--after three weeks I'll want to leave Manhattan and hide out in Maine."

"Let's make a quick hit here." I had finally eased into a parking space. "All we need is some bottled water and laundry detergent. We could have avoided Walmart and gone to Publix, but we were in the neighborhood and so I thought . . ."

"That's OK, love," Rona was at last smiling, "I can handle one more trip to Walmarts. Ordinarily I really like coming here. But it's just so hot, I didn't sleep well last night, and I guess in spite of myself I'm having some separation anxiety. It won't be easy to leave your mother. She's not doing as well as she was back in January and at nearly 105 you never . . ."

"I know. I know," I sighed.

"Let's get this over with quickly and head home. I think we both could use a nap."

"Deal." We exchanged fist bumps.

Once inside we quickly rounded up the water and detergent. "Can you believe it, this laundry soap is less than $4.00. At Publix it would be twice that. Like millions of others I suppose that's why we're here like."

"Billions," I corrected her.

"It is a little funny," Rona said, "to be here on Equal Pay Day. Walmart's a case in point about why we need that--more equal pay regulations."

"Indeed, indeed." I noticed I was repeating everything. Another sign of aging that annoyed Rona. This time thankfully she let it pass.

"I almost forgot."

"What's that?"

"We need a small container of half-and-half. We have three more breakfasts before we leave and I ran out this morning. I don't remember where they keep it. We never buy it here."

"I think over there where they have the orange juice. Sometimes we get our Tropicana here. The prices again are . . ."

"Yes. I see the refrigerator chest over there by the wall." Rona cut me off, clearly having had enough talk about comparison-shopping. We were soon to be back in about the most expensive place in the world, New York, where my yogurts are by now probably $2.00 rather than the 72 cents we paid for them last week at Publix. Rona understandably, before the fact, didn't want to make the sticker-shock worse that it inevitably will be.

I pushed the shopping cart toward the juice and cream chest and stopped a few paces away. "Where do they hide the half-and-half," I muttered, scanning the shelves. "It must be near here somewhere. Ah, I think it's over there right by the whipping cream."

"I see," Rona said, "But what's going on over there?"

"I don't know."

"There," she pointed, "There's an old man holding onto the door handle of the other refrigerator. It looks like he's having a seizure or something."

Concerned but not knowing what to do, I asked, "What do you mean? He looks like . . ."

"Like he's holding himself up by clinging to the handle."

"Maybe I should tell someone who works here that . . ."

"Before you do, let's see if we can help him."

By then we were within five or six feet of where he was obviously struggling with something. Maybe Rona is right, I thought, that he's experiencing some kind of neurological incident.

"Do you hear that?" Rona whispered. She had stopped and held onto the cart so I wouldn't push it any closer.

"Shouldn't we . . . ?"

"Quiet. I want to listen."

"Listen to what? He looks like he's in trouble."

"I forget you can barely hear anything. But I think he's OK. He's talking. He must be using a cell phone. Like in New York, you remember, all the people walking in the streets who appear to be talking to themselves but are on their iPhones."

I did remember that. In fact I hate it. But how unusual, I thought, that someone who looks as if he's at least 90 should be doing the same thing that twenty-somethings do so routinely.

But I did hear him talking. Actually, it sounded as if he was having an argument with someone.

"If I told you once, I told you a thousand times," he yelled, hunched for privacy close to the refrigerator door, "leave her be." He was gesturing with his free hand. "You don't need this. No more. Enough."

"I think . . ." I said.

"Quiet. I don't want to disturb him. And also, I want . . ."

"I know, to listen."

"Like I told you," he continued, still agitated, "she's no good. No good. What did she ever do for you except make your life miserable? Mis-er-able. You did this; you did that. Always thinking about her. Her good-for-nothing husband. Her children who never raised a finger to help. You, always you. Always you." His shoulders were heaving and it looked as if he was about to cry.

Rona moved us half a step closer and held a finger up to her lips to shush me.

"Remember when she came home from the hospital. After her hyster-memory operation. Who took her in? Who took care of her? Nursed her? Bathed her? Took her back and forth to the doctor?" His whole upper body throbbed. "You. You. You. No one else. You. Who gave up your bed for her and slept on the sofa? And for how long? Days? Weeks? No, months. Months."

I noticed, like me, he too was repeating himself.

"For days and days after she was strong enough to go home. If I didn't put my foot down she would still be living with us. Even though she's dead, she'd still be living with us. Wanting you to take care of her. To do her every bidding." I heard the beginning of a sob.

"And now? What now?"

By then there was someone else standing next to us who apparently needed some orange juice, But she too didn't advance further and stood patiently next to me.

"Gone. Everything is gone. Everyone gone. Over. Nothing is left. Fartik. Turned to scheisse. Scheisse. Shit!"

With that he let go of the handle, turned, and, trembling with tears, shuffled unsteadily toward the front of the store.

Rona touched his back as he passed close to her. I looked the other way at the woman who was loading a quart of juice into her cart.

There was no cell phone.

June 16, 2017--Midcoast: Colonoscopies

It used to take at least a half hour before any of us would mention colonoscopes. Now we get to it right away. Even before we are served our first cup of coffee.

Just yesterday we not only talked about them but also bladder infections, melanoma, detached retinas, atrial fibrillation, shingles, abscessed molars, Hashimoto's Disease, and kidney stones.

And of course we share health insurance, doctor, and hospital stories. Few of them good.

My colonoscopy story was about my recent visit to a new internist. After taking my medical history and giving me a thorough examination, including a cardiogram, when he was done, he told me things look pretty good except for a heart murmur and my right hand tremors.

Ignoring that for a moment, I asked him about a colonoscopy. "I haven't had one in a few years," I said, "So maybe it's time . . ."

Before I could complete my thought, he said, "At your age we no longer recommend colonoscopies (he's a gastroenterologist no less) because no matter what we might find, at your age, you'll die of something else."

In a way that sounded good, but in truth, on reflection, not really.

I said, "I guess that gives me something to look forward to. Dying soon."

He doesn't have much of a sense of humor, or maybe his waiting room was full of patients and he didn't have time to schmooze, and so he barely smiled.

The cardiologist and neurologist he referred me too said pretty much the same thing--about the murmur, something else will get me before it becomes a problem; and the same for the tremor--"I'll write you a prescription for L-Dopa," he said, "And we'll hope for the best." He hardly needed to add, "that you'll die before . . ."

I stopped listening.

When I told the story to friends at the diner yesterday, one said, "This reminds me of a joke." We all groaned. Lou is not known to be a good joke teller. Undeterred though, he began, "Morty goes to his doctor who gives him his annual physical. When he's done, Morty asks, 'So how did I do?'

"The doctor says, 'Ten.'

 Confused, Morty asks, "'Ten what?' Years? Months? Days?'

"The doctor says, 'Nine, eight, seven, six . . .'"

Not that bad a joke from Lou.

And of course everyone either has a new set of hearing aids or is about to get them. And so there's a lot of breakfast talk about that.

"Why do we always seem to be talking about medical issues?" Rona wondered. We were driving to the pharmacy to get my L-Dopa prescription refilled.

"Isn't it obvious?" I said. "We're all getting on in years and stuff happens."

"Wouldn't you think . . ." she began.

"And don't forget that Maine has the oldest population of all the 50 states. And our county, Lincoln, demographically, has the nation's oldest residence."

The next time we were at Deb's Bristol Diner, when even before the waitress arrived to take our order, Jim began to talk about his diabetes numbers, I said, "Not to sound unsympathetic, but maybe we should try to talk about something not medical."

Jim who is not the sensitive type, without attitude, said, "What would you recommend?"

"A book, gardening, or maybe Donald Trump."

He said, "I rather have a colonoscopy."

Deb

October 10, 2016--Bar Mitzvah Boy

I'm taking a day off from Trump-Clinton 24/7.

*  *  *

So--
Even casual readers of Behind know my mother died last year at 107 plus three days. I am sure I am deluding myself when I think I can equal or outdo that. But 110 or more feels within reach.

I know . . .

But, when I read that Yisrael Kristal waited 100 years before being bar mitvahed at 113, since I also have not been ritualistically admitted to the Jewish version of adulthood (that lack I have been told is obvious), I thought there was no rush to find a rabbi willing to take on someone incorrigibly like me if I want to fill that gap in my Jewish resumé.

But then I read, also in the New York Times, that new studies of aging are coming to conclude that 115 years is looking like the ceiling for human life expectancy. Some, including me, have been thinking that with modern medicine there is no limit to how old we can get. What kind of life one would have at 130 is another matter.

A little thrown off my pins by these findings, I did a little quick calculating and, considering my age, I thought I had better get on with my Torah training if I want to be alive for the blessed event. I also thought to turn to Mr. Kristal's life story to guide me.

His life turns out to be so unique, so incredible that I can barely find anything specific to steer me but inspiration.

At 113, the world's oldest man according to the Guiness Book of World Records, he was born in 1903 in the small Polish village of Malenie--as it turns out not far from where my mother was born just five years later. Since World War I was raging when he was 13 he could not be Bar Mitzvahed at the traditional age.

After the war, with an uncle, he moved to Lodz and opened a candy store. In 1939 Lodz was overrun by the Nazis and his wife and two small children were killed. Five years later, with his second wife he was sent to Auschwitz and somehow managed to survive, the only member of his extended family to do so. When the camp was liberated he weighed just 82 pounds.

He emigrated to Israel, married, and raised another family. He now has two surviving children, nine grandchildren, and 30 great-grandchildren. Most of them were at his Bar Mitzvah. He is reported by them to retain most of his capacities.

Looking around at the family who gathered for his bar mitzvah, one of his granddaughters said, "All these people from one person. Imagine how many rooms could be filled if six million had lived."

His daughter, Kristal Kuperstoch say her father has prayed every morning for the past 100 years and attributed his longevity to that and his diet--he eats modestly but when he does, almost every day, he has a helping of pickled herring. Until his late 80s he also had a taste for wine and beer.

The herring and beer sound pretty good to me.

Bar Mitzvah Boy Yisrael Kristal

September 23, 2016--Creaking (Concluded)

So yesterday I went to see Dr. Gary Schwartzberg, the audiologist, to pick up my hearing "devices" and to have my first "adjustment."

"Look, they're the same color as your hair," Rona continued to do her best to sound upbeat, "Silver gray. As I said the other day, they're cool."

"It is impossible for someone my age to be, much less look cool." I mumbled again but this time loud enough to be heard.

"Again, as I said," the Dr. S broke in, clearly not having set aside a whole day to deal with my ambivalences, "As I said, have high expectations. You're about to see how amazing these babies are."
Babies again, I thought.

"Let me help you." He slid his chair closer to me, "First let's hook this over your ear," he did so, "Then push this tube gently into your ear canal." Again he did so, "And then, last, place this wire thus in the curve of your outer ear. It's sort of like a spring that keeps the device from accidentally falling out."

"Probably, in my case, down the toilet."

"The insurance, included in the fee, would cover that." I wasn't sure if he was humoring me. Again, in 30 years he's seen it all.

Then he did the same thing with my left ear.

With them both in place what I felt was similar to using earbuds when listening to an iPod or movie on an airplane. In other words, I felt almost nothing. "But," I said, "I'm hearing even less right now than before you installed these babies," I reached toward them, "I'm afraid these aren't helping. I can, can't I, return them within 90 days and get all my money back?"

"Yes, there is that guarantee, but . . ."

"What's the fastest time in the Guinness Book of Records for someone to turn in their devices? I think I might set it if I give them back to you right now."

"I'm not surprised but . . ."

Looking toward Rona, I said back over my shoulder to him, "Forgive me for having told you so. I knew they wouldn't work for me."

I wondered what happened to my begrudged optimism.

"If you'd only give me a moment to turn these on," he said, smiling, "They won't begin to work until I've done that. I'm about to do it wirelessly through the computer. It's . . ."

Embarrassed that I had been so impetuous, so out of control, now that I had calmed down a bit, I confessed, "I feel like such a baby. I really do want to give them a chance. You've been encouraging me to have high expectations. To tell you the truth, I thought you were overselling these." I tapped the device in my right ear. "But more than that I didn't want to raise my hopes and then have it turn out to be disappointing like my father when . . ."

"Can we please leave your father out of this," finally exasperated, Rona said, "That's ancient history and . . ."

"My father," I said gasping, "You . . . I mean you . . . You . . . Your . . . I don't . . ."

"What's going on, honey?" Rona leaned toward me, concerned about my incoherent stammering, likely thinking I was having an ischemic stroke.

With that I burst into tears, but despite my sobbing, I could hear Dr. S say to Rona that he had just activated the devices.

Amazingly, so instantly I could hear more audibly than I could remember. I said, "Your voice . . . it's as it was when we met more that 35 years ago. When we were so much younger and all of life stretched before us. Listen to me--I'm talking in clichés." I took a deep breath, "How I loved your voice then but I haven't heard it that way for what feels like many years. Many. Too many."

I sat with my thoughts while staring at the computer screen and the vivid graph of my hearing deficits. "Can I get up?" I asked the doctor, "I want to hold onto Rona," who by then, softly, quietly, also was sobbing.

Somehow a box of tissues materialized. I took a few, even hearing the sound of them being pulled from the box. "So this has happened before?" I asked, now smiling through tears.

"As you said, I've seen it all. Often, people do have the same reaction. It's almost as if they're hearing for the first time. In your case . . . . Well, that's what the tissues are for."

*   *   *

Later, back home, I went from room to room as if visiting for the first time. I wanted to listen to the house.

The floor crackled like exploding popcorn. Lying down to test the sound of the bed, I heard more creaking but this time with no popping. It was softer, rounder. Through the bedroom window I could hear the songs of the first birds that appear at dusk. And the water in the bay, gently lapping the shoreline were sounds I was hearing for the first time. Using the toilet, which I had to do, was like producing a splattering cascade over river rocks.

I couldn't believe I was getting sophomorically poetic about peeing in the toilet!

Crying again, Rona reached out to me.

We stood there by the window, clinging to each other as across the water the sun completed its work for the day.

Still in contemplative mode, I asked, "Do you think the sun makes a sound as it sets?"

"Maybe you'll know in a week after the next adjustment."

See Kanye West's Right Ear

June 28, 2016--Lady of Forest Trace: Mom at 108

Yes, I'm greedy.

Today would have been my mother's 108th birthday. She came up 362 days short, having died on July 1st last year. A great run, especially considering she was still pretty much her essential self well into her 107th year.

How amazing. What good fortune for her and these many of us who loved her and found inspiration in how she lived her extra-long life.

You would think that getting to my own advanced age and still having a mother to talk to and visit and be inspired by would have satisfied me. Or anyone.

But I hasn't.

I wish I could call her today and talk about Brexit and Hillary and Trump and Orlando. I wish I could be there to celebrate even if being there toward the end was more to sit with her and hold her hand as she lived out with dignity her final months and days.

A smile is all I really need. Not just today, but since I am certain I will have the same greedy feeling on every one of her future birthdays, for as long as I go through my own late-life dramas.

June 14, 2008--Midcoast: Alte Kaker Checklist

John and I have a lot in common.

Though I am a little older, at this age, the few extra years I have on him do not make that much of a difference. We both have our aches and pains.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it. He, on the other hand, likely has a different perspective and probably thinks those few years do make a difference, quite a difference. He after all two weeks ago with a buddy drove 10 hours north to the Gaspe Peninsula and went salmon fishing in the Cascapedia River. In the rain and in a canoe, if you can believe it. His partner caught a 35-pound salmon the first morning out and John helped land it.

I, on the other hand, that weekend, did a lot of reading and napping.

So when we met at Chrissy's for breakfast after he got back--wheezing and coughing--we picked up on one of our favorite discussions--aging.

Another thing we share in common is the fact that we both had ancient mothers. John's died two years ago at about 105; mine nearly a year ago at 107. So, from that alone, we are authorities on the subject.

And thus in an attempt to inoculate ourselves from the inevitable, we try to make light of this otherwise terrifying subject. So after hearing about the salmon (and seeing pictures to prove he wasn't just spinning a fish story), I unveiled my latest idea--an Alte Kaker Checklist.

Though John is not Jewish and doesn't understand many Yiddish expressions, having grown up in nearby New Jersey he knows enough to know that alte kaker refers to us--gracefully-aging men.

"Give me an example of what would be on the checklist," John said, humoring me. He had more salmon-fishing stories he was eager to share.

After hearing a few more, I said, "For example, Do you have two-inch-long hair growing our of (a) your eyebrows, (b) your ears, (c) your nose, (d) all of the above."

Warming to this, John plunged in, "In my case, eyebrows for sure." He brushed them up to demonstrate.

"I also see one growing out of the tip of your nose," I said leaning toward him and squinting.

Noticing the squinting he said, "How about--"How many pairs of glasses do you need?"

"For me--three," I said, "(a) one of course for reading, (b) another for driving, and then (c) a third pair for middle-distance seeing. Like for watching TV."

"I only need two," he said, flaunting his superiority or to emphasize that three or four years difference in our ages does in fact make a difference. "But," he quickly confessed, "I do or did have a detached retina. In alte kaker terms that must count for something."

"Unfortunately, yes," I said, "Admittedly though it's not the same thing, I'm growing cataracts," I said, to one-up him, "I think in both eyes."

"I already had mine done," he said. "Also both of them. Remember that--two, three years ago?"

"Put that on the checklist too," I said, "Unable to remember things from (a) childhood, (b) two years ago, (c) yesterday."

"Or, how about (d) what you just had for breakfast?"

"I think maybe it was a croissant."

To play along with him, I tried to sound befuddled. Which unfortunately was not that difficult to do. "Clearly also coffee," I said tapping my half-full mug.

"Can we agree to leave aches and pains off the list?"

"I understand. That could be a checklist all its own--an aches and pains one."

"While fishing," John said already violating our agreement, "I developed this pain in my shoulder." Grimacing, he rubbed it, "I had trouble casting my flies into the river. And forget about driving."

Changing the subject, I said, "How about, (a) no longer drive after dark, (b) can't hear cars passing on the right or left, (c) drive in the left lane five miles an hour below the speed limit."

"I've got another one for you," John chuckled, "(d) ignore wife's driving directions."

"How about (a) wearing a belt with suspenders, (b) need orthopedic shoes, (c ) found myself wearing one brown and one black sock."

"Or, (a) can't bend over to tie my shoelaces, (b) . . ."

"Me too. These days I find myself preferring slip-ons."

"Need to sit on the side of the bed when putting on my jockeys and pants."

"How about, (a) wake up to go the bathroom, (b) wake up twice to go, (c) three times, (d) . . ."

"New rule," John said cutting me off.

"What's that?"

"I think we should agree not to go there."

"Go where?"

"How should I put this--below the belt, if you get my meaning."

I quickly did and agreed. "Indeed I do. This is supposed to be fun. In another minute it could get depressing."

"I'll tell you what's depressing," John said.

"What's that?"

"That you're thinking about wearing suspenders."

"Or your admitting you get up three times a night to . . ."

"I said no such thing. The situation is bad enough without needing to get too specific."

Beginning to get up--he still has a business to run--he signaled to me to turn my one good ear toward him and with a lowered voice admitted, "OK, maybe two times."

April 20, 2016--Dinner at the Yale Club: New Outfits

"You, I mean we really should do some shopping."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because we could use a few new outfits."

We were about to leave to meet Hedy and Tony for dinner at the Yale Club, where they are members.

Rona was plucking lint off my jacket lapel while at the same time brushing some dust off the shoulders.

"How long has this been hanging in the closet?" Rona asked.

"You mean in years?"

"Yes, years."

"Quite a few," I admitted.

"Give me an estimate. I don't need to know in years and months. I'm trying to make a point."

"That's clear," I said beginning to feel grumpy. "But, OK, it could be fifteen."

"Months or years?"

"You just said . . ."

"Forget what I said. My point is that you, we could use some news clothes. This jacket, for example. I like the fabric but . . ."

"But what?"

"Look at the lapels," Rona had plucked off all the lint. "They're wide enough to almost reach your armpits."

"I think it looks cool. Kind of retro, that I'll admit, but still pretty good looking."

Rona shrugged as if giving up on me. "I have others. Newer ones. But since it's warm out tonight, I thought I'd wear my lightest jacket."

"It's fine," Rona sighed. "Let's get going. You know I hate to be late. But I still feel we could do a little better. I mean dress a little better. Me as well. Look at this top. How many times have I worn it the last two years? I think every time we met Hedy and Tony for dinner. You may be OK with it, but they must be wondering about us. Always wearing the same clothes."

"That's why I thought to wear this . . ."

"So we'll be a few minutes late."

"What's happening?"

"There have been a few things disturbing me lately that I think we need to talk about." She put down her purse.

"This sounds serious," I said, not really in the mood for a heavy-duty discussion right before heading out.

"Doesn't have to be," Rona said. "Depends on how you take it."

"Tell me what's on your mind. Disturbing you."

"You know the tremor you have in your right hand?"

"The essential tremor?" I said.

"That one. Though I don't know why you call it that."

"I did some research and it clearly is and . . ."

"Have you asked a doctor about it?"

"Not yet. But I'm sure it's not Parkinson's, if that's what's on your mind."

"Among other things."

"It's pretty common among older people," I said.

"So is . . .  Forget it. I know you'll go in your own good time."

"Really. I've done a lot of research and it's not Parkin . . ."

"And you seem to be doing more shuffling when you walk."

"Only in New York City where the sidewalks and streets are so full of cracks and potholes. I'm just trying to be careful."

"Which is a good idea, but it's also . . ." Rona turned away from me.

"But it's also . . .?"

"Another side of aging. Out of fashion clothes, tremors, shuffling."

"What can I tell you, I am aging. I'm just trying to do it carefully."

"What does doing it carefully have to do with your beginning to come downstairs for breakfast in your pajamas?"

"There you have me. I've been lazy about that. I'll be more . . ."

"It feels to me that you're doing that because you want to be dressed for your midmorning nap. Admit it, you're not just being lazy."

"I haven't been napping in the morning. It's just that . . ."

"It feels to me that you're getting ready to do that. I mean, have a nap after breakfast."

"Criticism acknowledged. I'll . . .?"

"I don't mean it as criticism. Just that I don't want you to prematurely assign yourself to being old when you still have all your marbles and most of the rest of you."

"Anything else," I asked. "We should probably . . ."

"In fact, there is."

"Shoot. I mean tell me what it is."

"You know that coarse hair that began to grow out of the tip of your nose a few years ago?"

"I do. We both thought it was funny. How this happens to men as they . . ."

"Can you please keep it trimmed? It seems to grow two inches every day. I don't ask for much and . . ."

"Done."

"I'm sorry, there is still one other thing."

"Yes?"

"The jacket. Can you maybe change it to one that's only ten years old?"

March 25, 2016--Ladies of Forest Trace: Posthumous Lunch With the Ladies

"We're only here for a few more days and though I know it will be difficult," Rona said, "maybe it would be good, even therapeutic to visit Forest Trace one last time and . . ."

"But with my mother . . . why would . . .  ?"

"Closure, I suppose. We've been in Florida now for almost three months--for the first time with your mother not here . . ."

"Dead. Not 'not here,' but dead because that is what she is. Avoiding saying it that way has not been helpful to me. It's gotten in the way of my mourning because I expect to get a phone call from her and even be able to pop over to see her. Her being 'not here' means she's only away. For the time being. Not gone. Not final. Not dead."

"I get your point, but I think the anti-euphemism business is not helpful. I know what she is but it doesn't feel necessary to say it over and over again. For me . . ."

"For you, fine. For me, I think I need to think in these terms. But I'll try not to obsess about it. I do need to do some more grieving. I've been stuffing my feelings of loss. When we head for New York this time no one will care when we leave or what route we take or be waiting for a call when we arrive safely."

"We're more on our own, that's true," Rona said, reaching out to hug me. When she did I burst into tears. "But we're fine, as fine as we can expect to be right now. And we will be better. These last three months in Florida have been helpful to thinking about what was and what will be."

"It would help if we didn't know so many people in such dire circumstances and . . ."

"That's always been true. We're fortunate to know so many people and that means we'll always have someone struggling with mortality."

"Put me on that list," I said, still tearful, "I'm struggling big time."

"Is there something you're not telling me? I mean do you have symptoms I should know about?"

"None other than a heavy heart."

"I have an idea," Rona said, sounding upbeat.

"I'm open for anything that would help lift me out of this."

"Why don't we call a few of your mother's friends. Some of the Ladies, and see if we can take them out to lunch."

"I like that idea. Maybe to that wonderful dim sum place, Toa Toa, where Mom, six months before she died had her last meal in a restaurant."

"She loved that lunch. We ordered all her favorites from wanton soup to soy sauce noodles."

"She ate everything. So slowly that they had to reheat the food four times and it took her two hours to finish."

"I'll remember that lunch forever."

"Six months later she was gone."

"No longer here," Rona smiled, holding on to me.

So a few days later we were able to arrange for three of the "girls," as my mother referred to them, to meet us at Toa Toa where we ordered up a storm, including a sampling of my mother's favorites.

We wanted to talk about her, and though they were happy to do that, it was clear they wanted to do so for only a limited time.

Bertha said to us, "We remember her with love. She was a remarkable person, but one special thing about her was her not wanting to dwell on unpleasant things. 'There are enough of them at our ages,' she used to so. 'In our lives, in the world. So let's try to look for positive things to talk about. To think about the future, not just the past. Things we can feel optimistic about.' That was her in a nutshell."

"This is not always easy for us," Fannie said, "We all come from Europe from a  time when things there were not good for people like us and then here with the Depression, World War II, and of course what Hitler did."

They all nodded. But perked up almost immediately when the first in a stream of steamed dumplings arrived.

"She wouldn't be happy about the election," Gussie said.

"I thought we were supposed to talk about more optimistic things," Fannie said, at 97 managing her chopsticks quite well.

"We'll get to that," Gussie said, asking for a knife and fork, "We'll get to that. But, like I said, she would not be happy about that Trump."

"Who is," Bertha said. "such a bully. Such a bigot. Who says such terrible things about women. He claims he has Jewish friends and loves Israel, but I have my doubts."

"Though some of the men where we live, the few men who are still with us, some of them like him and voted for him in the primary."

"Did they tell you their reasons?" Rona asked.

"He can get things done, they say."

"Just that?"

"Just that. And most of the men think he knows what to do with the Muslims and Mexicans. I mean, the terrorists and immigrants. They talk as if they're one and the same."

"Did they say what they think Trump will do?"

"No. Just that he's strong and will keep them safe and build that wall."

"To tell you the truth," Fannie said, "These men are lucky to wake up in the morning or even know who they are. They're that oyver-botled. You expect them to know any specifics about Trump or any of the other ones? They get lost going to the bathroom." The ladies smiled and nodded in agreement.

"I love these chive dumplings," Bertha said, "These were your mother's favorites. In the past, when she was better, when she had lunch here, when she got back to Forest Trace she would go down the list of what everyone ordered and gave an analysis of each of the dishes."

Remembering that, when she was fully herself, really until not so long ago, when she was already 105, I began to tear up.

"I'm sure I know what she would be thinking about Trump," I managed to say, "Among everything  else she would have been repelled by his crassness, his crudeness. She never uttered a four-letter word even when that would have been forgivable. She was very proper and held everyone including herself to very high behavior standards. She could be quite judgmental about those kind of things."

"Do you remember the 2008 election?" Fannie asked.

"I think I know what you are going to say," I said.

"How your mother worked so hard to help Obama win the nomination?" I nodded. "How she worked on the three of us and dozens and dozens of others at Forest Trace. Almost all women, many who were born before women could vote, how she worked on us one by one to convince us that Obama would make a better president than Hillary."

"And how at first we all resisted," Gussie added. "It took her awhile but slowly but surely she persuaded almost all of us to vote for Obama. Which we did. She helped 125 of the girls fill out absentee ballots and then in huge shopping bags took them to the board of elections."

"I do remember that," Rona said. "I was so proud of her. She was a feminist in her own way. Very much so. But she put that aside because she saw more potential in Obama."

"And she was thrilled,"I said, "when he not only won the nomination but was elected. Not that she overlooked his flaws as president. She could be very critical. Tough-minded but fair. She never let anyone off easy. I can tell you from personal experience that she had very high standards and it wasn't easy to meet them."

"We held ourselves responsible for Bush," Fannie said.

"How so?" Rona asked.

"Those chads. Remember how in 2000 George Bush won Florida because of those hanging chads in Broward and Palm Beach Counties? That's where we live and I am sure with our shaky hands we by mistake pushed the wrong chads and wound up voting for that Nazi, Pat Buchanan."

"He's just an anti-Semite, which is bad enough," Gussie said.

"Well, your mother wanted to make sure that never happened again. So she had us fill out those absentee ballots. With her checking everything, I'm sure none of us voted for John McCain and that awful Sarah."

"And Obama did win Florida, by a comfortable margin, and of course the election. Your mother was very proud of that."

"So, here's the big political question," I said. They put down their forks and chopsticks to make sure they heard me. "How would she be feeling this time about Hillary?"

For a moment no one said anything. "That would be complicated," Fannie said.

"I'm sure she'd vote for Hillary," Gussie was quick to add.

"But with mixed feelings," Fannie said. "Though there's no one else she would even consider voting for." The other girls looked quizzically at Fannie, who added, "She might have been well over 100, but she had all her marbles and she'd be like all those young women not yet voting for Hillary. The ones interested in Bernie. I think she would have felt that Hillary takes for granted the votes of women just because they and she are women. Solidarity. A word we used to use in the labor movement. You know I was a member of the ILGWU. The ladies' union. Garment workers."

"Say a little more," Rona said, "We can ask them to reheat the food."

"This is more important than shrimp dumplings. For your Mom that would not have been enough. Just being a woman. To her as you said that was important but not enough to vote for a president. As with Obama eight years ago, she was only interested in who she felt would make the best president. If that person happened to be a woman, so much the better."

"Or a black man,"Bertha added with a wide smile. "And I agree, only if it's so much the better."

"She would have understood all these young women," Fannie continued, "How they don't want to feel pressure or obligated  to thank their mothers' generation for what is now possible for young women. Though that's to a large extent true--all the opportunities--these girls, and they are girls to me, are entitled to stand on their own two feet and accomplish all they are capable of accomplishing. And not feel they have to be beholden to anyone."

"But I am also absolutely sure," Bertha said, "that she would have said that it's important not to forget the past and all the sacrifices women made to blaze a path for their daughters and granddaughters. That's only fair. And in the primary we just had and in November, if she had only still been with us, she would've voted for Hillary. And proudly."

Bertha nodding said, "Can you imagine what your mother might have accomplished if she had all the rights and opportunities these young women have?"

"She would have been a school superintendent," Gussie said. "Running all the schools. Not just a first grade teacher. And a good one."

"She wouldn't have had it any other way," Rona said, "Only if she earned it. No special treatment or sense of entitlement."

"I'll drink to that," all three of my Mom's friends said, clicking tea cups.

"Do you think they could bring us some more hot tea?" Bertha asked. "We Polish girls like our tea very hot."

January 8, 2016--Snowbirding: Checkout at Walmart

"Them sons-of-bitches they cut me this year."

We were on the checkout line at Walmart in Boynton Beach with a cart full of staples for our place in Delray.

"Can't trust a one of 'em." Muttering to himself was a bent-in-half old man--at least 90 by the looks of him--just ahead of us with a half-filled shopping cart.

Ours contained gallon jugs of bottled water, beer, soda and juice, various paper goods, and other essentials that would help get us started during our three months in Florida. His, a few comestibles, some shirtsleeved shirts, underwear, and two six-packs of Bud.

"Sons of bitches," he said again. "Wish there'd be somethin' I could do 'bout it," he spit through missing teeth, this time in our direction.

"Like I said, they cut me."

"Cut you?" I said, with Rona signaling behind his back that I should mind my own business.

"Them bastards in Washington. My social."

"Your social?" Tired from the drive of more than seven hours from Beaufort, SC, it took me awhile to figure out what had got him so riled up.  "I get it. That is I think I do. You're talking about . . ."

Rona continued to be annoyed with me.

"Like I said, my social." He turned away from us, to Rona's relief, as by then he was first in line.

"Help me out here, would you?" he said to the cashier.

"Anything I can do," she smiled.

"How much is this one here?" He was holding up a blue plaid shirt.

"Let me scan it for you." She did. "It's on sale. It says," she pointed to the screen. "only $9.95."

"OK," he said, "You can ring that one up. Now what about this one?" This time he showed her a seven-pack of jockey shorts.

"They're on sale too. Just $4.95."

"Easy for you to say," he snapped.

"Sorry, sir. I'm just trying to be helpful." She continued to smile at him.

I could hear him grumbling, not appreciating her cheery spirit.

"Maybe we should change lines," Rona whispered to me.

"All the other lines are filled with even older people," I exaggerated. "Let's stay where we are. He's almost through."

"How much are the beers goin' for these days?" he asked, "On sale too?"

"Sorry, no. I think those are $6.95," she said. "Want me to scan 'em?"

"I'd rather you total up what I owe you this far. I mean for the shirt, the shorts, and this here beer."

"I can tell you that. It says $21.85. Not including tax. Want me to calculate that?"

"Not necessary, though what they do with the tax is beyond me. Don't do me no good. But that adds up already to more'an I got," he again spat. "Let me put the shirt back. I'll take the shorts. I'm runnin' out of underwear. That way I can get them and pay for the two six-packs." He again looked over toward me, shaking his head.

I nodded back at him. Directly to me he once more said, they cut my social, them sons-of-bitches."

"I think I know what you mean," I said. "They also cut my Social Security this year. I used to get . . ."

Rona jabbed me in the back and I shut up.

"Tell the truth, you don't look like you'll miss it. You got that cart all loaded up and she's quite a looker, your niece or whatever she is."

"My wife," I said softly.

"They're making me pay more for my Medicare and won't even pay to have these choppers fixed." He opened his mouth wide and pointed to all his missing teeth. "Can't any more eat a goddamn apple. Worked all my life and this is what they do to me. I should say, what's left of me." He paused, sighed again, and said, "Not much. Not much is left of me."

"A lot of people feel the same way you do," Rona said, breaking her silence.

"Tell the truth that's no comfort to me. Only makes things worse."

"What do you mean?" Rona asked, even more empathetically.

"Everythin's gottin' worse. For everyone. Tell the truth I don't see much hope. Maybe 'cause I'm so old and bent like a pretzel that I can't see anything good coming along. A good day for me is if I don't fall down flat on my face in the parking lot."

"I wish I could . . . ," Rona stammered.

"That's awfully nice of you ma'am.  Sorry to have upset you. It's a nice day, the sun's out, you're here to have a good time. Don't let the likes of me upset you."

"That's OK," Rona tried to assure him.

"But as I said," I thought he winked, "Them sons-of-bitches. . ."

July 29, 2015--Farewell to the Ladies of Forest Trace: Stuff

The receipt arrived yesterday from the charity to which we gave much of my mother's furniture, housewares, and clothing.

I believe all will be put to good use.

For tax purposes, I suppose, the receipt itemized the donation--

Under furniture they listed two upholstered chairs (one of which was the one my mother sat in for decades when we visited), a sofa, two end tables, six shelves, a desk and chair (where my mother sat to balance her checkbook), two patio tables (one of which held her orchid collection), three mirrors (who know what ghost images are contained therein), a large breakfront, a mobile bar (which held a dozen unopened liquor bottles--my mother didn't drink even sacramental wine), two twin beds (one my father's the other the one in which she spent her last days), a dresser (on which there were framed pictures of her immediate family--these were not donated), and a convertible sofa (where Rona and I slept restlessly when in years past we visited).

More reflecting the reality of my mother's final years, the receipt listed a shower stool, a "handicap bath set," two canes (which she began to use when she turned 95), two walkers (needed five years later), and a wheelchair (which during her last two years she eventually required).

The ladder of years indeed.

She was not a shopper but since she kept virtually everything she ever bought in meticulous, perfect condition, at the end, the itemized list stated, her clothing filled fully 17 bags. In addition, there were at least two dozen pairs of shoes. All in their original boxes. (Not enumerated in the receipt. The IRS will figure it out).

The receipt also noted--COW 1 Hour. I assume that's an acronym for about how long it took the men to remove Mom's things. One hour. A lifetime resolves itself, this aspect of a lifetime, in just one hour? Would two have made me feel any better, that she had had a richer life? And then of course I wondered, how many COWs will it take to cart away my remnants?

But it's hard to imagine she could have had a richer life. Accomplished, respected by all, generous, loving, loved.

It is a cliché to say a life well-lived is not about things. Stuff. Though perhaps in some cases, if there is little else, it is.

But with my mother, her life was about what she did, the people she embraced, her pride, her ambition, the mark she left on the world, and how she lives on--not in anything tangible or quantifiable like a list of things, but in the hearts of all who knew her well enough to feel the awesome power of her love.

July 23, 2015--Ladies of Forest Trace: Mom and Dianne

It's been three weeks since my mother died and I called Dianne yesterday to see how she was doing.

As my Mom's senior caregiver, she had spent more time with her during her last years than anyone and they had formed an uncommon closeness. A friendship. So Dianne's loss was much more than professional.

"I learned so much from her. She was always teaching me things. I didn't always like the lessons but I always knew she had my best of intentions in mind and now, after she is gone, I realize that even the things that disturbed me at the time were more true and important than not."

"She was like that for so many of us."

"Your Mom may be gone," Dianne said with her familiar laugh, "but she will be here for a long, long, long time."

"I know what you mean. The lessons, the love that she shared with so many of us."

"Isn't that the truth."

"I am hearing the same thing from distant cousins of Rona's who live in California, who didn't really know her, who never met her but only heard about her, they have been sending us notes and cards telling us how important to them was the meaning of her life. How she lived and . . ."

"How she died."

"That's true too."

"You know, I would say to her toward the end when she spent most of her time in bed, when she told me how frustrated she was because she needed to spend all that time resting, I would say to her, 'Ray, you're doing what you have to do. You're still teaching, you're still working.'"

"'I'm still working?' she would say. 'Lying here like this I'm still working?'"

"'Yes,' I would say. 'You're teaching me how to grow old and how, yes, to die with grace.'"

"That's what I meant," Dianne said, "That's what I meant and it would make her smile. You know that smile."

She trailed off.

"I do," I managed to say.

July 1, 2105--Lady of Forest Trace: Goodbyes

My mother is not very good at goodbyes. Actually, she is exceptional good with them. Long ones. Very long ones.

Here's one example from about five years ago--

Her niece Esther was again hosting a New Years party for family and friends. My mother was of course invited but told Rona and me not to come to pick her up to drive her there because as a 102-year-old she went to bed well before midnight.

When we told this to Esther, in her usual wonderful way, she said, "So let's have an early party. We'll do the countdown at 9:00 and after that you can take her home and she can get to bed at about her usual time."

My mother agreed to this but said, "Don't do this for me. If the young people want to have a party later in the evening I'm fine to stay home."

We assured her that we weren't any longer that young and would be happy not to have to stay up past midnight.

The party was joyous, so joyous that my mother, ignoring the clock and her normal bedtime, stayed on and on. So long, in fact, well past midnight, that Rona and I were wanting to leave so we could get to bed at close to our bedtime.

"Mom," I whispered to her, "It's getting late. Very late. I think you should say goodbye so we can drive you home."

She agreed, but clearly was not entirely happy. She was having that good a time and was full of amazing energy.

I sat down on the sofa, knowing she would not be done saying goodbye for at least a half-hour.

Well, that evening she outdid herself, saying goodbye to those still lingering until 2:00 in the morning!

She now is in the process of saying her final goodbye. It has taken her 107 years to get to it, but we know that she is down to her final days or even hours.

As I said, she is especially good at very, very long goodbyes.