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.

March 25, 2015--Ladies of Forest Trace: Wit & Wisdom Concluded

Here are the final six brief conversations with my mother about Obama, Oy Vey: The Wit and Wisdom of My 107-Year-Old Mother--

Five

“The visiting nurse says I have an infection.”

“I suspected that. The cut on your ankle?”

“It could be worse.”

“Things always could be worse.”

“There you go being philo-physical again.”

“Sometimes I do try to put things in perspective. Hoping that maybe it would help—“

“For me there is only one kind of help.”

Fearing what she might be thinking I cut in to say, “You’re doing fine Mom for—“

“No ‘fors’ or ‘becauses’ tonight. I just want to go to sleep.”

Six

“It has a subtitle.”

“A what?”

“The book, Obama, Oy Vey, has a subtitle so everyone who hears about it, even if they don’t know what oy vey means will—“

“They can talk to me.”

“About?”

“About what I’m an expert in.”

“An expert?”

“An oy vey expert.”

Seven

“So talk to me about this wisdom business. About the wit we don’t have to talk.”

“You mean from the subtitle of my book about you?”

“What other book would I be talking about?  All I can read is the puzzle. And then only the acrosses.”

“You know how they say that one of the good things about getting older is that you acquire wisdom and--”

“About what I am acquiring I’d rather not discuss.”

“I’m not talking about those kinds of things.”

“But those are the things I live with. Every day. That’s my life.”

“I know about how frustrating it is for you to get older and—“

“What then are you talking about? The wisdom. The wit I know you said we are not talking about.”

“Not me. You’re the one who decided that.”

“Decided what? What do I decide these days?” She thought for a moment then added, “Maybe when to lie down.”

I let that pass and said, “What you have learned over all your years, are still learning, and which you are teaching--that’s the wisdom—“

“You call it wisdom when you can’t remember what day it is? How much wisdom is that?”

“Wisdom is not about remembering those kinds of things. It’s about—“

I could tell from her breathing that she had fallen asleep.

Eight

“Give me a for-instance of the wisdom part.”

My mother had returned to our interrupted conversation of a few days ago.

“For instance the time I asked you about Henry Cross.” I could hear her struggling to take in air.

“What a lovely boy. A wonderful family. Do you remember his mother, Bessie Cross?”

“Yes. She took care of me while you went back to work. To teaching. And how Henry slept in my room weekdays so Bessie could have a second job at night.

“And his aunt and uncle. Aunt Sis and Uncle Homer. Wonderful people. Do you remember them?” I knew recalling these times was making my mother happy.

“Yes. And that they came from South Carolina. Were field workers. Henry too during summers. They picked cotton.

“The things they needed to put up with.”

“Not just there,” I said, But here up north as well. Right in our own neighborhood.” I paused to let the memories wash over her. “As an example of your wisdom, do you remember just a few years ago when I told you the story about Henry who, as a Negro, was welcomed on the block where we lived in Brooklyn until he was old enough so that maybe, maybe one of my friend’s sister might be interested in him and then how I was told not to bring him with me when we played street games?”

“I had forgotten that until you reminded me about it.”

“And what did I ask you?” I took the chance to push her to recall something that would frustrate her if she couldn’t remember.

“I remember that too.” Her voice thickened to almost a whisper. “You asked me—“

I felt a gathering of tears and feared I had pressed too hard. So I completed the story for her.

“I asked you what I should have done when Henry was declared to no longer to be allowed to visit and how when he learned that he left East 56^th Street, never to return. And how I let him leave, staying behind with my friends.”

Tears filled my eyes as well.

“I told you that you should have gone with Henry.”

“That’s the for-instance about wisdom you asked about.

Nine

“I’m not much of a reader anymore—except for my puzzle—but there’s one more thing I know.”

“What’s that?”

“That the subplot of your book isn’t true.”

“You mean my subtitle.”

“That’s what I said. It isn’t true. The oy vey book.”

“Obama, Oy Vey: The Wit and Wisdom of My 107-Year-Old Mother.”

“That book.”

“You mean about the wit and wisdom part? I hope you agree that there’s a lot of both and—“

“Not that.”

“Then what’s not true?”

“I’m not your 107-year-old mother.’”

“But you are,” I insisted.

“Not until June.”

It was dawning on me what she had in mind. “I think—“

“Not until the 28^th. June 28^th. Then I’ll be your 107-year-old mother. Until then the book is not true.”

Self-satisfied, she chuckled and hung up.

Ten

“And remember—this I am remembering—now and after I am gone—“

“Do we need to talk about that?”

“Yes, we do.”

“All right then.”

“Now and after I am gone I will love you forever.”

To get information about the book, click below:

http://www.amazon.com/Obama-Oy-Vey-Wisdom-107-Year-Old-ebook/dp/B00UMPGYAS/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1427239604&sr=1-1&keywords=steven+zwerling

November 7, 2014--Best of Behind: The First Ladies of Forest Trace

Since I am sensing that there will not be too many more "Ladies," I thought to repost the first of them. It appeared on August 2, 2008--

Since whoever wins Florida’s electoral votes is likely to be the next president, rather than checking in with MSNBC or Justice Scalia to see who’s in the lead or who the Supreme Court will choose this time around, to find out how things are looking I call my mother who lives down there in a place called Forest Trace.

Forest Trace is for very senior citizens. The average age of the 400+ residents is about 80 and back in 2000 they were among the voters who punched the wrong sprocket on the paper ballot, thinking they were voting for Gore, but because of either shaky hands or misaligned ballots they hung enough chads, or by mistake punched a hole next to Pat Buchanan’s name, to send the election to the Supreme Court. And, as they say, the rest is history.

My mother has dinner every night with the same five or six friends, all of whom are lifelong Democrats who feel personally responsible for putting George W. Bush in the White House. Thus, this time around they are wanting to make up for what they consider to be their cosmic mistake.

As you might imagine, all but my mother were Hillary supporters. Actually, all but my mother remain Hillary supporters. They are among the disgruntled who feel that the nomination was snatched away from her by the media’s being unfair to her because she is a woman or because Barack Obama did not treat her with appropriate respect—remember, “She’s likeable enough”? They relate to her culturally and viscerally. They too stood by their men when they drifted, forgot their birthdays and anniversaries, didn’t help with the children, and failed to make an adequate living. So Hillary not only felt their pain, to their way of looking at things—forget objective reality—she lived it.

I was thus both curious and worried about what the ladies would think, and more important do, after John McCain rolled the dice and chose Sarah Palin to be his running mate. Would the residue of their feminist resentment be so strong that they would hold their collective noses and pull the lever or punch their chads for McCain-Palin just because he picked someone with the right gonads?

So Friday night, after her dinner, with considerable trepidation, I called my mother to see how McCain’s gambit was playing with my own personal Florida focus group.

She too was worried. She reported that most of the “girls” were very pleased with his selection and were now going to vote. Prior to this, out of on-going anger, to protest, they had been planning not to vote at all. Now, my mother said, they told her they were going to vote for McCain. When, she challenged them, saying both he and more important she were against all the issues and policies that Hillary supported, they shot back, “All we care about is that he chose a woman; and if we ever are going to see a woman in the White House during whatever little is left of our lives, this is our last chance.”

My mother was shaken and so was I. I tossed and turned all night, feeling that in spite of what seemed to be a fairly universal reaction that Palin’s selection would take the “experience” argument “off the table” and thus help Obama; and that any rational side-by-side comparison between Palin and Biden—assuming he didn’t come off condescending and patronizing during the vice presidential debate—that this too would tip the election toward Obama. Thus the ladies had me in a 24-hour state of political panic.

I say 24 hours because when I called my mother the next evening, again after dinner, I could tell by the bounce in her voice that things had changed.

“You sound different, mom,” I said.

“Yes, sweetie, I am feeling better. Much better.”

“Tell me. Tell me. What did the women say?”

“They’re all now going to vote for Obama.”

I resumed breathing. “What happened?”

“You know them, you met them the last time you and Rona were here. They’re all smart and well informed. They read all the papers, including the Times, and watch CNN.” I did recall liking them and thinking that they were still very much “with it.”

“Now that they know more about her,” I knew she was referring to Sarah Palin, “they are feeling insulted. They are now saying that John McCain is, what 72 years old, had serious cancer—and they know all about what that means—and has been saying all along that the most important thing is for him is to have a vice president who is ready on day one to become president.”

She knew I’d get the “day one” reference. “The girls now see that she is not ready if, God forbid, something happens to him. We have wars going on all over the place, terrorists still want to attack us, the economy—including their own pensions--is in trouble, and everyone around the world hates us.”

That was also pretty much my list. “So now that they have taken a second look at her and also realize that she opposes every issue that they fought for all their lives, some of them even marched for--you know Selma went to the South on Freedom Rides—they are saying that they don’t want the United States to be the laughing stock of the world. Things are already bad enough.”

“So? So?” I asked.

“They tell me they’re now all voting for Obama. And that’s not going to change.”

“I’m so relieved to hear that,” I sighed. “I’ll be able to sleep tonight.”

“Please, you need to get your rest. And be sure to eat.” She was still my mother. “I know what happens to you when you’re upset.”

“I will. I promise. I am so happy to hear that they will be voting for Obama. Florida is such an important state.”

“I know. In fact, you also know R___.” I did remember her. “Well,” my 100 year-old mother said in a whisper as if R___ might be able to overhear her, “She is not well. I think she may not be with us very much longer.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” I said.

“I told her to get an absentee ballot and to vote next week, because you never know what will be.” Her voice trailed off. “To tell you the truth, all the girls here, me too, should do that.”

I had to admit that made sense to me though I held back from adding anything that would contribute to further discussions about mortality.

It was almost nine o’clock and my mother, again full of enthusiasm said, “I have to go and watch Larry King, but be sure to call me again next week. With these girls, who knows, by then they could be voting for Ralph Nader!”

I could hear her laughing as she lowered the receiver to its cradle, making a note to call her then. I’ll be sure to let you know what the ladies are saying.

November 4, 2014--Ladies of Forest Trace: Darling

It is becoming more difficult to determine when it is best to call my more-than-106-year-old mother.

Time is having its inevitable way with her. She is losing vitality and spends more time than in the past resting and napping. So for me to establish a calling routine--she very much likes routines and rituals--is not working well.

Six months ago a good time to call was 12:30, after she had had her lunch. But now, even lunch is losing appeal. She is eating less and less with diminished interest. At times she doesn't rouse herself for it, sleeping until mid-afternoon; and so if I call at 12:30, it is more than likely she will not be available.

I try later in the day--3:00 sometimes works. Most days she goes down for a very early dinner, leaving her apartment at 3:30 precisely. Generally, that routine remains. But calling then can find her resting or not up to talking. I then try to reach her at 5:30 or 6:00 when she is back in her apartment, preparing for bed. On occasion, she is in bed before 6:00 and so my daily call is more frequently becoming an every-other-day occurrence.

Early last week I did reach her at the old familiar time--12:30.

Her aide told me she had a good lunch and wanted to speak with me. My mother, she informed me, in fact was eagerly waiting for my call.

Optimistic, I asked, "How are you today, Mom?"

"Doing the best I can," which is what she always says--true or not--to relieve me of any need to feel anxious and to let me know she is still not needing any more help or concern. Another example of her continuing, lifelong generosity and pride.

"You sound good to me," I said as cheerfully as possible.

"I am, darling." She sounded on the phone as if she were smiling.

"I'm so happy to hear that."

"And how are you?"

"I'm fine. Doing well. The weather is still nice and--"

She cut me off. "I love you darling," she whispered, and abruptly hung up.

I felt a wave of concern. This sounded so final, so conclusive. Would this be the last time I would speak with her? Was she signally something changed about her condition? Something dire she was intuiting?

As it turned out it wasn't the end or even the seeming-beginning of it. I spoke with her two days later--at 5:30--and she sounded even a little better.

"You do not need to worry about me, darling," she again reassured me.

"You know I will," I confessed. "That's the way I am. We are." We are a worrisome people.

Later that evening, over dinner with Rona, I told her about the most recent calls.

"Isn't it wonderful," Rona said, "to be your age and not only to still have a mother, but for her to call you darling. How I . . ."

Overcome with emotion, she couldn't continue.

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."

July 29, 2014--Ladies of Forest Trace: Winking

“If you want to talk to me you have to call between winks.”
"Between What?"

“I’m sleeping all the time. Twenty winks.”

“Forty.”

“Forty what?”

“Winks. You’re catching 40 winks.”

“So call me later when I’m awake. When I’m not winking.”

*  *   *

Which I did.

“Did I wake you?”

“No the phone did.”

“That was me.”

“You? I heard the telephone. Not you.”

"That was me calling. So the phone rang and . . .”

“I know. I was sleeping. And it woke me. Not you.”

*   *   *

When I called again, she said, “I’m such a baby.”

“A baby? Is there something frightening you?”

“No. Nothing.”

“But?”

“But, I’m such a baby. All I do is sleep.”

“That’s not true. You nap.”

“Nap, schnap, I sleep. I’m turning into a baby again. They sleep all the time. And do other things I don’t do . . . Yet.” She chuckled.

“You watch the news, read the paper, do the puzzle, join friends for breakfast and dinner, and . . .”
“Sleep all the time.”

“Nap all the time,” I muttered under my breath and said, “You are after all more than 106-years-old. And you do need your rest and . . .”

“And sleep.”

She trailed off, breathing heavily.

*   *   *

“While I’m between winks I have something to say.” It is rare now for her to initiate calls.

Is there something wrong I feared?

“I know this is upsetting you,” even on the phone, at 106 she can still read my mind and emotions.

I lied, “Not at all. I love hearing from you. It’s just . . .” I couldn’t hide my anxiety.

“Just that I never call any more. I’m so mixed up by what day it is.”

I wasn’t sure what that had to do with calling.

“I used to call you religiously every Sunday at 12:00. When I say religiously, I don’t mean . . .” She was breathing heavily.

“I know you don’t,” I jumped in, not wanting to tax her—it is now unusual for her to be able to sustain a conversation of more than five minutes. A few back and forths. Actually, with me doing most of the talking, which is easier on her.

But this time, with considerable effort, she pushed ahead.

“I know you are wondering what is keeping me alive.”

“Not really. I know that . . .”

“I’m too old and too smart for you not to tell me the truth.”

“I’m not. I’m . . .”

“Stop interrupting. At my age, this could be the last thing I ever say to you.”

“That can’t . . .”
“Yes it can. So just sit still.”

“I’ll try.”

“We’ve talked about why I got to be this old and you told me it’s because of my IRA.”

“DNA, though your IRA doesn’t hurt.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about that. DNA, IRA they’re all the same to me.”

“In terms of the quality of your life that’s probably true. But you’re fortunate to have both.”

“Who’s doing the talking? Me or you?”

“Sorry.”

“Worrying is what keeps me going.”

“Sorry, worrying?”

“About everyone and then the rest of the world.”

“I . . .”

“You know how I always ask you about the young people in the family?”

“Yes.”

“How I am the last one?” I knew she meant of her generation and, now, more and more, even of the next one as her nieces and nephews are aging and . . .

“I worry about them and need to know they will be all right after.”

I held back from asking what she meant about after. I knew.

“And then I worry about what Mama and Poppa will say.” Her parents died nearly 70 years ago.

“Will say?” I was having difficulty not responding.

“What they’ll ask when we are together again. If I took good care of everyone. As the last. As they want me to.”

“I am certain they . . .”

“You don’t know them like I do. So I am not so certain.”

“We can disagree about . . .”

“And I also worry about the world. Not just the Jews. Though about them I am most concerned They are not doing the right thing.”

“The right thing?”

“For themselves and their neighbors who have been there for thousands of year. My Poppa always says that it is the responsibility of the strong to show understanding and compassion. Not to make it worse for those who are weak and suffering. Shouldn’t we Jews especially have learned that lesson? After so long being weak and suffering?”

“About this we do agree.”

“So I read, I watch Wolf on CNN, I listen to the girls at dinner, and I know it is not yet time for me to go.”

“I am happy that . . .”

“But I am not happy. I am not happy living this way where I can’t do things for myself. And I am unhappy at what I see. Not with the family. Though I worry about this one and that one I know they are secure and either can take care of themselves or are being helped. This is what to me family means.” She took a deep, raspy breath.

“I am unhappy with what I see in the world,” she said, “Russia. Iraq. Syria, Lydia.”

“Libya.”

“Lib-ya, yes, thank you.”

“You are not responsible for any of this. I keep encouraging you not to spend so much time watching the news. It upsets you.”

“What else do I have to do with my remaining time?”

“I understand. Though I have urged you not to dwell on all these troubling things, to do so is who you are. And, I’m sure you’re right, worrying, being concerned about everyone and everything has helped keep you going.”

“Where am I going?”

I chose to not respond since I did not have a good answer for either her or myself. Instead I said, “You can report about all of this to your parents when the time comes.”

“It is coming. But I try every day to live. There is still so much more . . .”

June 30, 2014--Ladies of Forest Trace: Alive and Kicking

It was the day after my mother's 106th birthday and I called to run an idea by her.

"I have a theory."

"A what?"

"A theory, a perception I want to ask you about. It's something I've been noticing for the past number of years."

"How big a number? I'm trying to get used to big numbers. But before you tell me about your ideas, I have a related question for you."

"Shoot."

"Is this the way you talk to a mother? About shooting?"

"Sorry, please, ask me your question."

"How did this happen to me?"

"What's the this?"

"To get to this number."

"Oh, you mean your age."

"What else? What other numbers do I have to think about?"

"I'd say, primarily because of DNA."

"Dee-en what?"

"Genetics. You had two sisters who lived to about 102. So good genes run in your family."

"Good other things too."

"I agree with that. But your getting to 106 is about that and also that you had and have an active and stimulating life. They say that contributes to longevity."

"Longevity, short-gevity, they're all the same to me as long as I feel good. And now that my birthday's over--which I do not like to celebrate, I still have vanity about my age--I can get back to feeling as good as it's possible to feel at these sky-high numbers."

She paused to take a deep breath, which I was happy to see since her breathing has been shallow in recent months. "So, already, shoot." She chuckled at that.

"Here's my theory--Remember what years ago Rona and I said to you when you turned 85, about how  . . ."

"That I don't remember."

"Wait, wait, I haven't gotten to it yet. It's something we said to you about 20 years ago. How at that point in your life, rather than thinking always about other people and what they want and expect of you--something you did, devoted your life to to that point--that it was your turn. That if you wanted to you should say and do whatever was on your mind--not censor yourself or think so much about what others might expect of you--and that we would follow your lead. We would not put any pressure on you to think or say or do anything other than what you wanted and seemed right to you."

"This I remember. Rona said that when she got to be my age she'd start drinking and smoking again. That was funny."

"I'm not sure what we said influenced you at all, but it seems to me that since you were at least 90 you've been--how should I put this--feeling, acting more yourself. You speak your mind more, you do more things that feel as if they are what you really want to do than what you think others want. You speak your mind more forcefully. You seem willing to disagree more than in the past. You seem more focused on yourself than on others."

"And this is a bad thing?"

"No, no. Quite the contrary, I'm saying that this new, more assertive you is a good thing. You spent so many years . . ."

"Doing," she whispered, as if she didn't want anyone to hear, "Doing what other people expected."

"That's how it looked to me."

"Even voting the way your father told me to do. I remember that when we walked to the school to vote he would tell me to vote for this person but not that one." She chuckled again, this time it was mixed with a sigh. "As if I didn't know Republicans from Democrats. But, when I got behind the curtain, I did what I wanted."

"I'm glad to hear this. That curtain sums up what I'm trying to say--you could only be yourself, true to yourself, in private. Away from others' influence and expectations."

"I'll tell you something else."

"What's that?"

"All the women I knew did this." She paused, and I tried not to say anything, not to fill the silence. To let her thoughts flow freely.

"That's the way we were brought up. Not to speak our minds. Not to take the lead. Not to disagree. To hold ourselves back. I had sisters who joined the garment union and Bertha marched to demand the vote. But they were criticized for this. By their husbands and even by their father. My father, who said we should have a home, a husband, children and not work, not picket."

"That was how your generation of women was supposed to behave, but . . ."

"No buts. Though this is what was expected of us, still we shouldn't have gone along with it. Some didn't but most did." Again she paused, not to draw me in but to relive those memories and disappointments.

"This included me. And when later women began to talk about liberation and became feminists still, though I was working as a teacher and even was the acting principal of my school, at home I was a wife and a mother. I loved being a mother but being that kind of wife I didn't like so much."

"You were a wonderful mother and . . ."

"I followed in the news what women half my age were doing and demanding and, though I agreed with the ones who weren't shrill or man-haters, I was too old to join them and burn my bra." At that she laughed so full-throatedly she began to cough. "And if I did," she had quickly regained her breath, "burning my bra would have caused a bonfire." Again she laughed. As did I.

"Your father." Again I heard her inhale. "He was a good man. In his way. In a traditional way.  He worked hard, was responsible, accepted the family, which at first didn't accept or like him. He was born in America. All the rest of us came from Poland or Russia. I liked this about him. His being an American. I was proud of that. They thought he was arrogant for being born here and because his parents came from Austria. Can you imagine?"

"I can. Back then that was not uncommon."

"It's so different now? Where you come from? Not everyone is happy with immigrants. They forget where they came from."

"True enough."

"And your father was a strong man. A strong person. He made me feel secure. I still had fears from my childhood in Poland. From the pogroms. He protected me from that. Not the pogroms. Thank God we didn't have these in America. But places were restricted. Even in the Catskills. Some hotels had signs that said, 'No Jews-No Dogs.' In my lifetime I saw those signs. But they didn't bother your father. He felt as if he belonged and because of him I belonged too. And was safe."

"I know he also could be a difficult man. Severe and harsh at times. Actually, often."

"He was never successful enough for him to feel like a true man. He saw others, including in the family, doing better and it upset him. It made him angry and he took much of that out on me. As if it was my fault. I tried to protect you from his frustrations. But you know . . ." She paused this time to get control of her emotions.

"But you know, though I saw it as my role to do this--to let him be himself, to accept that and to protect you--though I did this, wanted to do it, saw it to be my responsibility to do this, it came at a price."

"I think I understand."

"But back to your theory," she had regathered herself, "which caused me to remember all this. Though my memory isn't what it used to be. You are saying that you are seeing something different in me."

"Yes. Definitely. To use a word many are using these days, you seem more authentic."

"You mean I haven't been?"

"Not exactly. But for some years now you seem to be more your true self. If that's helpful."

"I think I understand."

Though concerned I might be pushing too hard, still I asked, "Do you agree?"

"With?"

"That for the past ten to fifteen years you have been different?"

"I have to think about that for a moment. As I just said, there's a lot I forget. So it's hard to remember myself from so long ago." I sensed her struggling to recall the past. "Maybe, maybe . . ." She trailed off.

"It's OK, Mom, we can talk about this another time. I don't want to overtax you."

"You can tax me all you want. Everyone does. I just paid my quarterlies."

"I meant . . ."

"Maybe I am different. How long ago did you say this was?"

"Ten, fifteen years ago."

"And when did your father die?"

"I'm not good at remembering dates. Maybe 15, 18 years ago."

"So you see?"

"The relationship between Dad and . . ."

"Me, as you would put it, coming into my own."

"That's interesting. Really interesting. What about . . . ?"

"That's just what I was about to tell you." I'm not sure how she knew what I was going to ask. "All the girls here. It's the same thing with them. Those who came into their own. It was after their husbands . . . . They may have loved them but . . ."

"I see where you're going with this. How after . . ."

"It's a terrible thing to admit," my mother said, again after not saying anything for a moment, "Sad how they had to  . . . before . . . I . . . we could . . . But yes . . . I . . . we . . ."

"So I need to amend my theory," I stepped in to interrupt those painful recollections, "To consider the reasons you became, were able to become an active feminist at an older, geriatric age," I opted for that euphemism, "I mean, not just you but some of the ladies."

"Many."

"Many?"

"Many of the ladies. They also are different and . . ."

"And?"

"And if you live long enough it can happen. Anything."

March 13, 2104--Ladies of Forest Trace: The Wimp

“You know how much your mother likes us to come for dinner with her and her friends.”

“Didn’t we . . .?

“We didn’t,” Rona said. “At least not this year. Last winter once or twice but . . .”

“We should,” I quickly agreed, knowing we would wind up there for dinner no matter what excuses I might make. Among other things I hate eating at 5:00. And then there is . . .

More about my resistance I am reluctant to reveal. So we made arrangements to join my mother and the “girls” last week.

“The menu isn’t that bad tonight,” my mother assured us in the passive voice and without much conviction. “But there’s always the chicken. I like it without skin. Which is the way they serve it. Without any sauce. Too much salt.”

This didn’t excite my appetite. But as Rona has said in the past, it’s not about the food. “And you should think about eating at 5:00 as late lunch. Just nibble and then at 7:30 we can go to Toa Toa for some wonderful dim sum. You know, your favorite, chive dumplings.”

I love Rona, especially when she tries to encourage me to see things in the best possible light.

Bertha ordered the brisket (“I can still chew it if it’s not stringy”), Rose the vegetable plate (“I’m eating healthy these days”), and Ruth the fish (“I know it’s frozen. But I can use the brain food”).

My mother, Rona, and I ordered the chicken. “Do you have any with skin?” I asked, “I like skin. And, for me, please include the sauce. I like salty food.”

Rona and my mother exchanged glances.

“So what have you been doing with yourselves?” Ruth asked as she dug into her side salad. I was fascinated by someone having such an appetite in the middle of what felt to me like the afternoon.

“A little of this, a little of that,” I said. Rona kicked me under the table. “Taking beach walks, seeing family and friends,” I continued, “Also, getting a lot of reading and writing done and . . .”

“Reading what?” Rose asked.
"And writing what?” Bertha wanted to know.

“A little of this, a little of that,” I said and again got kicked. This time a little harder.

“I just finished a book my brother-in-law recommended. About the American ambassador to Nazi Germany just before the war started. It’s . . .”

“I read that too,” Rose said. “I forget the title. These days I forget everything. Including who I am.”

“You do not,” my mother assured her. “You have an excellent memory. And you know who you are. Rose is who you are,” she added with a gentle smile, wanting to remind Rose in case she in fact, for the moment, did forget her own name. Which sometimes happens. Rose is nearly 100. Yet, amazingly, a full six years younger than my mother.

“I think it’s called A Beast In the Garden.”

“Actually,” I offered under my breath so only she would hear, “It’s In the Garden of Beasts, which in German is . . .” Once more I was kicked.

“In German it’s tiergarten. When we were in Berlin, Jake and I went there for a stroll. It’s Berlin’s Central Park. Though why he dragged me to Germany I’ll never know.”

“Did you like it?” Rona asked.

“The book or the trip?”

“Well, the book.”

“Not really. I already know too much about Germany.”

“You’re always reading about Germany,” my mother said.

“Not that much. I let myself read just one Nazi book a year. I don’t need to be reminded. Half my family I lost there. Actually, in Poland, where it was even worse for the Jews than Germany, if you can believe it.”

“So the Garden of Beasts was your Nazi book for this year?”

“I guess you could say that,” Rose said with a faraway look. I didn’t know if she was thinking about Jake or the Nazis.

“It was interesting I suppose,” Rose said, “to focus on the ambassador and his family. His daughter was the most interesting. She was jumping into bed with every American, Russian, and German she could get her hands on. And threw in a few from France.”

“Sounds good to me,” Bertha said with a chuckle. “I could use a little spice. On the brisket too, for that matter.” All the ladies joined her in laughter.

“The book reminded me again,” Rose resumed, “what anti-Semites there were in our State Department. The Secretary and all his assistants. Roosevelt wanted to let more Jews come to America but they blocked it. They should all rot you-know-where.”

“I say Amen to that,” Ruth added quietly, “I lost most of my family in the camps.”

All the ladies joined her and said “Amen.”

“Can you believe what’s going on today?” my mother said.

“About what?” Ruth said. “There’s so much it’s hard to know where to start.”

“In the Ukraine with the Rushkins.”

“You mean the Russians in Ukraine?”

“Yes, there. It’s terrible.” She shook her head side-to-side, sadly. “More anti-Semites.”

“You know what’s making me so upset about that?” Rose asked and before anyone could answer said, “What they’re saying about Obama.” The other ladies, knowing where this way going, nodded in agreement.

“They say he can’t do anything right,” Ruth said, “First he’s a dictator, he wants to be the king, and then the next day they say he’s weak.”

“A wimp,” Bertha said. “Didn’t that Graham senator call him that?”

“I’m not sure it was him, but it was him for sure,” Ruth said, “ who said that America, Obama should put a rope around Putin’s neck. He should talk like that considering he’s from Georgia. The Georgia in America where no one should talk about putting ropes around people’s necks. I know. I went on Freedom Rides.”

“He’s just worried about getting reelected,” Rose said. “Not that that should excuse him.”

“He and his sidecar, McCain, are so angry,” my mother said. “When they talk about Obama you can see how much they hate him. Not just disagree with him, but hate him.”

“At least they were in the army, McCain and Graham,” Ruth said, “But what do you make of the others who did not go, who are calling Obama weak and . . .”

“An appraiser,” my mother said.

“Appeaser,” Bertha corrected her.

“That’s what I meant. Sometimes I get so mixed up. They should only know from appraising. You’re too young to know about that darling,” she said to Rona. “And be thankful for that.”

“I know what you’re talking about Mom. About how so many in England and America thought they could buy peace by appeasing Hitler.”

“See how I told you she knows everything?” my mother said to the ladies. “Everyone in my family is so smart.”

“There she goes again,” Rose said, winking at Rona, “How she loves her family.”

“Here’s what I think,” my mother said so softly that all the ladies needed to huddle together to hear her. I joined them in leaning forward. My hearing is not that much better than theirs.

“These days if you’re the president,” she whispered as if she was saying something conspiratorial and did not want to be overheard, “it takes more courage to let people think you’re a so-called wimp than bluster about military options. That’s easy to do.”

“I’m confused,” Ruth said. “Which for me,” she shrugged, “is most of the time.”

“Not true, dear,” my mother assured her, “You still have left at least half your mind. What I mean,” she continued, “is that it’s easy if you’re just in the Congress or on TV to talk about getting tough with the Rushkins. What are we going to do? Bomb them like that fool Sarah Palin said? That’s meshuga.”

“You’re making wonderful points,” Bertha said. “Rachel on TV couldn’t make them any better. She’s the smartest. Her mother must be so proud of her.”

“With Obama weakened,” my mother pressed on, “because he only has two years left and, to be fair, got all tangled up with those red lines in Syria, it takes a lot of maturity, with the pressure he’s under, not to go off the steep end. When you are as strong as America is—and we are still very strong—as I said, it takes courage to hold back and look for a solution without threatening to shoot and bomb. We’ve had enough of that. Just look at the mess doing that made.”

“That sounds like the right thing to me,” Rose said.

“How’s the chicken?” Bertha asked, having has enough of political talk. “My brisket is chewy but tasty. I like the sauce they serve with it.” She stole a glance in my mother’s direction and then smiled at me.

I had picked away at the chicken but was looking forward to the chive dumplings.