July 3, 2105--My Favorite "Ladies of Forest Trace" Story

As you might imagine, I have been doing a lot of thinking about my mother. She died two days ago at the age of 107 plus three days.

During the past 7 or 8 years I've written more than 50 stories about her and posted them here with the running title, The Ladies of Forest Trace.  I have received comments from people far and wide, mainly strangers, who have written things such as--

Thank you so much for sharing your mother with us all these years. She is a treasure, and will be part of so many people's memories. I am so sad that she will soon be leaving, after all this time. Clearly it is inevitable, but I did begin to wonder if she might be immortal . . . and I guess, in a way, through these stories, she is.

So here, at the end of her amazing life, is my favorite Ladies story from June, 2008--

Henry Cross

When visiting with my mother on Saturday to celebrate her 100th birthday, I did one of those silly things one is inclined to do on such occasions.

Rather than asking her which invention or technological development that occurred during her lifetime was, in her view, most consequential--electric lighting, radio, TV, airplanes, the Internet--instead, I asked what single lesson she learned that she felt was most important in guiding her.

Without missing a beat, she said, "Do unto others as you would have them do to you."

"I totally agree," I said, once again amazed by her mental acuity and what she chose to offer as her guiding principle.

"I think, without your preaching it to me, that by your example, I learned that Golden Rule and hope I also have been at least partially inspired by it."

She smiled at me as if to say, as I hoped she would say, that she feels I for the most part have been a good person.

To test that, I asked if I could tell her a story about something I had never before revealed to her that has been troubling me for more than 60 years. 

She continued to smile at me.

"A few years after I was born, you returned to teaching and needed someone to care of me during the day. You hired Bessie Cross to do that. You remember her, don't you?"

She nodded and said, "Of course I do. She was wonderful. And do you remember she had a son, Henry, who was about two years older than you?"

"Yes. Of course I do. In fact, my story is about him. Henry Cross. And it is relevant to mention that he was black.”

With my heart beating faster, I continued, "One summer because Bessie Cross had to return to South Carolina to take care of her mother, who still lived on a plantation where she and Bessie as a young girl had picked cotton, Henry came to live with us.

"And since at that time I was an only child and our apartment had just two bedrooms, he slept on the daybed in my room. At night, lying side-by-side, we shared stories while waiting for sleep. 

He became like a brother to me. I liked to hear about his family, especially his Aunt Sis and Uncle Homer who tended the coal-fired boiler and steam heat system in the basement of an apartment building not far from our house. They lived in that basement too, and I loved to visit them with Henry. Aunt Sis would make us chocolate milk and pecan cookies that I can to this day still taste. They were that good."

"I remember your bringing some home for me one day. I had them with a cup of tea. They were delicious. Made with love."

"After his mother returned from South Carolina, for years Henry continued to stay with us on weekends and the two of us would join our friends in street games. Since he and I were good athletes we were among the first to be chosen when it came time to choose up sides.

"When we were done playing the whole gang of us would go to one of our mother's houses for milk and cookies. This went on for some years. But then a terrible thing happened."

"What was that darling?"

"What I never told you about." I took a deep breath. "One Saturday, after a punchball game, we were invited to Stanley Shapiro's house for our usual milk and cookies."

"I remember his mother. She was such a nice woman. I wonder if she is still alive."

"Probably not. That was more than 60 years ago.” We sighed together about the effects of time. “Well, all of us, including Henry, walked over to her porch where she had set up a card table with pitchers of cold milk and stacks of oatmeal and chocolate chip cookies.  As we were passing these around, Mrs. Shapiro came over to me and whispered that she had something she needed to tell me.

"'In the house,' she pointed.

"Puzzled, I followed her inside where her 14-year-old daughter Rosalie was hovering. Mrs. Shapiro leaned close to me and said, 'It is of course all right for you to stay. You are always welcome in my house; but your friend,' she hesitated, 'he has to leave.' Protectively, she glanced over at her unhappy-looking daughter."

"That sounds terrible," my mother said.

"That's only half of it," I said. "I went outside again and saw Henry waiting his turn to get a glass of milk. I took him aside and told him what Mrs. Shapiro had said.

"Henry did not look back at me nor did he say a word in response. Rather, he turned and raced down the steps and then along East 56th Street toward Church Avenue."

I heard my mother inhale.

"I never saw him again," I said, tearing up. The memory of that sweltering summer day rushed over me as if it were yesterday.

When I gained control of my emotions, I confessed that I did not follow after him because I chose to stay behind with my neighborhood friends. I had trouble continuing the story.

"Here's what I've wanted to ask you," I managed to say to my mother on her 100^th birthday. "If I had asked you later that day what I should have done after what Mrs. Shapiro whispered to me, what would you have said?"

Again without hesitating, this time in her most loving voice, my mother said, "You should have gone with Henry."

April 15, 2015--Ladies of Forest Trace--The Battle

The other day when I called my mother sounded quite good. Better than she had for quite some time.

So, I said, "You sound very good today. What's going on?"

Very deliberately she said, "I'm engage in the battle."

I liked that, felt that was enough to say and hear in one day, and so I rang off.

Later, I told a friend about the call. He too knew about having an ancient mother. His died last year at nearly 105.

"Very impressive," he said. "She's still fighting to stay alive. My Mom did as well. Right to the end."

"I'm not sure that's what she meant."

"What then was she saying?"

"She's not fighting just to stay alive. There is that too, but I think she meant much more."

"What's that?"

"That she was also engaged in the battle to have a life. That's not really the same thing as just wanting to live on."

"Sounds right to me," he said. "And amazing."

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.

February 13, 2014--Ladies of Forest Trace: Three Saturdays

An hour into our most recent visit, for the third time my mother asked, "Is it Saturday?"

And for the third time I said, "No, Mom, it's Monday."

"So you see, as I keep telling you, I am losing my memory." Looking at me, as if to explain, she pointed to her temples. "Soon I won't know who I am."

"On the contrary," I tried to assure her, "Your memory is fine, even for someone much younger than you."

"Everyone's younger than me."

"That's remarkably true," I said, smiling proudly, "And wonderful."

"So why don't I know what day it is?" she persisted.

"Neither do I," I said, half truthfully.

Picking that up, she said with a sly smile, "You're just trying to make me feel better about myself."

"I am, that's true, but as you know, I always try to tell you the truth. Even when it might be unpleasant. Really," I continued, "I get mixed up too. If it weren't for the New York Times, when each day there's a different special section, I wouldn't know if it's Tuesday or Wednesday. The Tuesday Science Times helps as does Wednesday's Dining Section."

"Last week, for example," Rona joined in, "on Thursday I thought it was Saturday and on Friday too. Then, when it was actually Saturday, I thought it was Friday. Talk about being mixed up!"

"You're making me even more confused," my mother said. "I know you're trying to help, but you're not."

We both mouthed apologies.

"Let's assume you're at times mixed up about the days," I decided to press on. "In truth, what difference does that make?"

"Or the time, for that matter," Rona added. "Maybe only when it's time for dinner of to take a medication. Other than that, why is time any more important than what day of the week it is?"

"When you get to be my age, darling, everything you're still aware of will be important. Nothing is unimportant. We hold onto to whatever we can hold onto. Time is one of those things. And what day of the week it is. These may seem small to you, but to me they're very important. It's how I measure myself."

"Measure yourself?" I asked. "I'm not sure I'm following you."

"How well I'm doing. Or how not so well."

"I understand," Rona said more to me than to her. "You've always been such a perfectionist and for most of your life you met your own standards. And now maybe . . ."

"Maybe not very well."

"I disagree," I said, "Not with the measuring part, but with your self-assessment. You, for example, always prided yourself on your handwriting and . . ."

"How important is that? Handwriting?" She shook her head back and forth.

"Admittedly not the meaning of life, but I'm mentioning it to make a point."

"Make your point."

"And," I said," it's still much better than mine. Your handwriting."

"It looks like chicken scratching."

"My friends have trouble reading handwritten notes from me."

"I mean mine. My writing looks like it was done by a rooster."

"What does this have anything to do with what Mom wants to talk about," Rona admonished me.

"Sorry. Rona's right. I got us off on a tangent and . . ."

"That where I am these days. On a tangent. Just like you said, I'm living my life on a tangent."

"That's not what I said, Mom. I was trying to acknowledge that by my bringing up your handwriting I got us, you off on a tangent. I'm sorry. Let's get back to what's on your mind."

"That I think today's Saturday."

"And as I tried to say, who cares? Why should you or us for that matter care. Unless we have an appointment for dinner or something. I read the Times sometimes on Thursday. I mean, Tuesday's New York Times on Thursday. You see how mixed up and confused I am about the days of the week?"

"You're young," my mother insisted, "So there's no reason for you to care because you're still good upstairs." Again she tapped her temples. "When you . . ."

"I should only be so lucky. I hope if I only get to 90 I'll be half as good as you."

"Are you patron of me?" she asked.

"You mean am I patronizing you? No. Absolutely not. You're the last person in the world I would do that too. Why you're . . "

"All mixed up." She tried to hide a smile.

"You know, yesterday, which was Sunday," Rona said, also smiling, I didn't get out of my PJs all day."

"Your what Js?"

"PJs, pajamas." My mother nodded. "We didn't need to go out for anything and I was comfortable in them, so I didn't take them off."

"And I didn't shave."

"Many men don't shave on Saturday."

"Sunday," I corrected her. "But I always do. I don't know exactly why. Maybe it's a pride thing."

"Or something else," my mother said, I thought with a wink in Rona's direction.

"Something else?" I was confused again.

"You want to put a good face on to the world."

"I like your pun," Rona said.

"Or to yourself."

"To myself?"

"Yes, like I have been trying to tell you, when you get to be old--and you are also getting to be old." I shrugged as if to say I prefer that to the alternative. "Things like dates and times and shaving are important. As I said, as a measure. 'How am I doing?' you ask yourself. 'Do I know what day it is? Is it Saturday? or Monday?  Did I shave? Am I still wearing my PKs? Do I know where I am? Can I still hold a pen?'" She winked again. This time at me. "'Do I still know who I am?'"

At this last rhetorical question Rona and I exchanged a long look.

She sensed our anxiety. "I can still answer all of those questions," she said, this time to assure us.  "I know it's not Saturday. Tomorrow is another story."

I said, "Tomorrow will be Tuesday."

"Are you sure?" Rona, by far the youngest of us, asked. This time she winked.

February 3, 2014--Ladies of Forest Trace: India

"Come over as soon as . . . you can. There's something . . . I need to talk to you about."

My mother, short of breath, sounded ominous. I thought, considering her age, was this the . . .

"Are you OK?" I asked, not really wanting to know the truth.

"Come."

"We'll be there in 35 minutes." I was already looking for the car keys and signally to Rona to get ready.

"Just you."

"Me? Alone?" That was unprecedented. Rona and I have always visited together.

"You. There's something . . ." She didn't or couldn't finish and hung up.

"I need to go to Forest Trace," I said to Rona who was hovering close, picking up my sense of concern.

"Give me a second to get my sweater."

"My Mom wants to see me."

"Just you?"

I shrugged.

"Of course, whatever she wants. But call me as soon as you get there. I can always have car service drive me and . . ."

"Just me," I said as I headed for the car, full of trepidation.

It's not as if this was unexpected. She is after all nearly 106 and though in remarkably good condition for someone her age--or even someone ten years younger--the time comes for everyone.

The drive south was harrowing. More so than usual. Everyone who lives here says I-95 is a death trap with cars darting across lanes as if in a Nascar race. So with death on my mind anyway, I shifted into the extreme right lane and got in line with the usual stream of cautious and traumatized senior citizen drivers. I thought, considering the circumstances, I'd better not get killed.

My mother wasn't at the front door when I arrived. As she always is. Arms out. Smiling. Like she wants to envelop you and all the world.

I rushed to the den, relieved when passing her bedroom not to see her curled in her bed in her last throes of  . . .

"Here I am," I said, breathless myself.

"That I can . . . see," she gasped.

"You have me worried. You never asked only me to come to see you. I was afraid that . . ." I trailed off not able to complete my thought.

"I need to talk . . . to you. You. I have something to say . . . to . . . you. My son." She squeezed out her words one at a time.

"I'm here for that or anything you need."

She sat silent for a moment, panting, then said, "India."

"India?"

"There."

"What about India, Mom? I'm all confused." I genuinely was.

"I want to talk with you about . . . India."

"I'm glad to hear you're all right enough to want to talk . . . But India? I thought . . . Honestly, I thought that . . ."

"I was . . . dying." She smiled up at me.

"You scared me half to death. I thought . . . But?"

"Half to death sounds . . . good to me. At my age . . ." She trailed off.

"You're 106, Mom, so when you called and said . . ."

"Not yet."

"Not yet what?"

"106."

"OK. You're 105-and-a-half. What difference does sixth months make?"

"At my age I'm allowed . . . to be . . . any age I want."

"At your age?" I couldn't restrain myself from feeling put upon. Relieved, yes; but in truth annoyed as well that she had gotten me here this way to talk about . . .

"What did you tell me . . . about India?"

"Here we go again with India."

"Indulge me a minute."

"Go on."

"Like I tried to say . . . before being interrupted," she was sounding better, "What did you tell me about India?"

"I can't remember. Please remind me."

"That you want to go . . . there."

"True. I casually mentioned it to you a few months ago. That, all things considered . . ."

"I'm trying now to consider all things."

"And?"

"And I have something I want . . . I need to say . . . to you."

"I'm listening." I moved closer and took her hand in mine. Though still not understanding why India or what I had said about it was on her mind.

"You should go."

"I just got here." I was totally puzzled.

"Not here. There."

"Which there are we talking about?"

"Where . . . you said you wanted to go. To India."

"I was just talking. We were just talking. Looking for things to talk about. I think I said that it's one place I haven't been that one day I might like to visit. I said might. Which is different than want."

"I know the difference. I'm not saying you need . . . to go; but if you want to, you should. Go."

"Since you brought me over this way, as if you had something very important to say or, because . . ."

"Again with the dying business. I told you that I'm not . . ."

"I'm relieved to know that. But, again, let's not worry about India. We don't need to. You for sure don't.  I mean, need to worry about India or anything. I'm OK, we're OK with the way we are living and how . . ."

"I am keeping you from . . . your dreams."

I was beginning to understand where this was going. What was concerning her.

"No you're not. We're living how we want to live."

"I don't believe you."

"How can you say that, Mom?"

"Because . . . I know you. I know Rona. You're . . . sacrificing for me." She squeezed my hand.

"How can I convince you we're not?"

"You can't."

"Can't what?"

"Convince me."

"I don't know what else to say." I really didn't.

She said, "Time zones," and peered at me as if that would explain everything. Now fully confused I looked back at her and shrugged.

"You say you want to always be in the same time zone."

"Oh, now I think I understand. That we want to live in the same time zone as you--from Maine to New York City to Delray Beach. I mean, in the same time zone as you. So if . . ."

"It's the if I want to talk with you about."

"The if? Just as I thought I was understanding you, you have me mixed up again."

"It's usually me . . . who's all mixed up. Now you. That's what I'm trying to say. About . . . being mixed up."

I thought it better to just listen.

"Old people get all mixed up." I nodded. "I'm all mixed up . . . and now you're mixed up." I continued to look at her, trying not to show concern about her being so seemingly mixed up.

"You're getting to be . . . an old man." All too true, I thought. "Which is my point." Now she was squeezing my hand with more strength that one had any right to expect from someone as old as she.

She saw tears beginning to well in my eyes. "I don't want you . . . to get any older waiting for me." I knew all too well what she meant by waiting.

"Go there . . . if you want. Forget about time zones. Live. Live . . .  your life. Don't worry about me. I am all right. And will be all right until . . ."

"It's hard, Mom. I understand what you're saying and I love you for it. And for many other things. But, yes. It does feel as if we're all waiting."

Now she too was teared up. Too old sentimentalists, I thought, tethered to each other for more than seven decades. Waiting. Maybe even wondering who would be first to . . .

"Live your life," she repeated.

"We are," I tried to assure her as well as myself. "We . . ."

"Just do."

January 3, 2014--Ladies of Forest Trace: Are You Limping?

Like clockwork, for decades, at precisely noon on Sundays, my mother would call. In fact, she was so regular in doing this that it would generate genuine concern if she was even a minute late.

I would look at Rona, she would look back at me with a worried face and I would ask, "I wonder if anything is wrong."

"She's probably on the phone with someone else," Rona would say, as much to calm herself as me.

Invariably, on those rare occasions, when she placed her call a few minutes after twelve, she would say, "I was on the phone with Harriet. She called and I couldn't rush her. I know you must be worried," she would say, "But I'm fine," and knowing we might be skeptical, she would add, "I am. I really am. Fine."

Last Sunday the telephone rang at the stroke of noon. "Is there something wrong with your voice?" my mother asked even before I could ask how she was.

"I don't think so," I said to assure her and by attempting to sound stentorian.

"It doesn't sound good to me. Your voice."

"I'm fine. I really am." In truth I was feeling well, though I am quite capable of not always telling her the full truth about my health, knowing that if I do, or cough while talking with her, she will begin to worry and in the process begin herself to not feel well.

"You sound scratchy too," I said. "I think maybe there's a problem with the connection. Hang up and I'll call you back."

She did and I did. "How's that?" I asked when we were reconnected.

"You still sound sick. Are you sure you're not hiding something from me?"

"I'm not. Really. But you don't sound so hot yourself," I said, in an effort to lighten the mood and relieve her concerns about me.

"Let me go upstairs to get another phone," I suggested, "Maybe there's something wrong with this one. Hold on. Hold on. I won't hang up while I'm going upstairs."

When I retrieved the phone from my night table and turned off the one from downstairs, I asked, "Is that any better?"

"Not really." My mother said, also continuing to sound as if she had a sore throat.

"Are you really all right?" I asked, turning the tables on her. "You're not keeping something from me, are you?"

"I'm not. But what's going on with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are you limping?"

"Limping?" I said, feeling confused. "I'm fine. As I said."

"I don't believe you. You're limping. I know you are."

"I'm not. I'm not." I felt guilty that I was beginning to become annoyed with her unending uber-concen about all aspects of my well-being as if I were still a child. "I'll tell you when something's wrong. I always do," I said, trying to calm her with a half-truth.

"By the way," I added, "What makes you think I am?"

"What?"

 "Limping."

"I heard you."

"Heard me?"

"Yes."

"How? When?"

"When you were walking up the stairs."

"Really? You heard me walking up the stairs?" I was truly incredulous at her inventive ways of keeping track of me.

"Yes."

"How?"

"The phone."

"The phone? I mean--"

It was beginning to dawn on me. I'm sometimes slow about noticing all the manifestations of her monitoring strategies. "You mean you heard me coming up the stairs because I was carrying the telephone? We do have a wooden staircase that amplifies sound and--"

She began to chuckle. "Since I don't always believe you tell me the truth, I have my methods for keeping up with you." She was by then laughing.

"You know, Mom, for an old lady you're really something."

Feeling good about herself, she said, "That I am. Something."

Before I could tell her how much I love her, she hung up. She didn't want to be late for State of the Union on CNN. One of her favorite Sunday TV talk shows.

January 1, 2014--My Father's Son

There is a story my Aunt Madeline took delight in telling. It was about something that happened twenty years after her brother, my father and my mother retired and moved to Florida.

Every six months Madeline would call to tell it to me yet one more time. I enjoyed hearing it again and again and took pleasure in her unrestrained joy when she recounting it.

You remember your cousin Irving? The dentist from Jersey City? He called all excited to tell me about something that happened on a visit to New York City.

"You'll never guess who I saw," he said.

"Who?" I asked.

"Your brother. David." 

"Where?" I asked, very confused. "Were you in Florida?" 

"Like I told you," Irving said, "I was in the city." 

"New York City?" 

"Yes." 

"That can't be," I told him, "He's lived in Florida. For twenty years."

"Maybe he's here for a visit." 

"I would know it if he was here. He's not here." I could hear he was becoming annoyed with me. 

"But," Cousin Irving insisted, "I saw him. In Greenwich Village. Walking along the park."

"You're wrong!" I yelled at him. You know me, I'm not shy about expressing my opinions.

"Well, I did see him in New York. And you know what's most amazing? I haven't run into him in more than twenty years, right?"

"Whatever you say," I said. "But," to humor him, I asked, "What's so amazing?" 

"Though I haven't seen him in twenty years, he looks exactly the same."

Aunt Madeline and I always laughed at this because, as she told him, "You didn't see Dave, you saw his son Steven who lives in the Village and looks just like him. I mean, he looks like how Dave looked twenty years ago."

Madeline long ago departed but I was reminded of this story the other day when I caught an unexpected image of myself reflected in a store window on Sixth Avenue. What struck me was that after twenty years, I now look just like my father did the year before he died.

Then about three years ago, visiting my 103-year-old mother, as she is inclined to do these days, we were talking about the past. It was and is for her the most vibrant time of her life.

She suggested we look at old family photographs. This gives her great pleasure. She has them loose in neatly-labelled boxes, not arranged in chronological albums. So a formal picture of her parents as bride and groom in late 19th century Poland is as likely to be found among photos from Passover dinner five years ago, or of me as a six-year-old, or Cousin Chuck at 12 on Brighton Beach showing off his Charles-Atlas-toned body.

Falling out of the box was a picture of a bearded, patriarchal figure clearly from the Old Country. "Who is that?" Rona asked. "I don't remember seeing him before."

"I don't know," my mother said, testing her memory. "He looks familiar, but . . ." I could sense her becoming frustrated at what she took as more evidence of her decline.

"I think maybe it's your father's uncle. He was a very learned man. Almost a rabbi."

"One thing, though," Rona said, "He looks just like Dad did."

"And Steven," my mother said, smiling at me.

Indeed he did, I thought. Not a surprise, but--

Last winter, two years later, we were back in Florida, again in my mother's living room, again listening to her stories from the Old Days, and again going through fading photographs.

On my lap I had the same box in which there were pictures of adolescent Chuck and her parents' wedding portrait.

"Let me take another look at Steven's great-great Uncle," Rona asked. "The one who looks so much like dad."

"And Steven," my mother recalled, with her cognitive powers intact.

"Where is it?" I asked, rummaging among the pictures of past Passovers and cousins' weddings and bar mitzvahs. "I'm sure it was in this box two years ago."

"How could it be missing?" Rona said, beginning to get annoyed at my inability to find it. I suspected wondering about the state of my own decline.

"Here. You look." I thrust the box over to Rona, who was curled up on the sofa.

Systematically she took each of the dozens of photographs out of the box and, while she was searching, stacked them in what appeared to be some kind of order.

"I can't seem to find them either," she confessed. "Whatever could have happened to them?"

"It's happening to everything here," my mother said. "Nothing is not where it's supposed to be. And everything is missing."

"No, it's not Mom," I said, reaching across to take her hand. "Everything is still in place. You're very careful about that. The apartment is perfect." And indeed it is.

Mystified, Rona put the newly-organized photos back in the box. "It's the strangest thing," she said to herself.

I  thought--are we losing the past? My father. Aunt Madeline. Cousin Chuck. My great-great uncle. The list is lengthening.

That's what time does, I rued. The circle is closing. Would I be next?

After a moment of sadness, I consoled myself by recalling that the image in the Sixth Avenue store window where I caught a glimpse of myself looking like my father did a year before he died was fully two years ago.