Octogenarian

Virginia Raphaelson Felsonm January 18, 2004

PROBLEMS OF AN OCTOGENARIAN: ROMANCE IN OLD AGE

There is a famous quote from Ecclesiastes: “For every thing there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven, There is a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to reap.”

In this paper, I want to challenge such an idea and to say, I believe that at any time in a lifetime, one has a right to criticize and challenge, to seek romance and have adventures. Age should not be the determinant.

I hesitate to read this paper, not that it was so difficult to write, but more that is a challenge to admit certain things in front of a group of lady friends. What right have I, an octogenarian (on one of my better days) to feel young, spry, ready to play tennis again, take a trip around the world, go to another Elderhostel? Of course, to be truthful, these strengths/thoughts come to me less and less-in fact, to be completely honest, seldom.

As I approach ninety, I remember my father’s 90th birthday party. Friends and relatives came from near and far. But dad looked so tired. He looked a lot like Einstein – saggy jowls, wild white hair, lots of wrinkles. His step faltered, and he had become a little paranoid. He hated the rhymes and jokes his family made up for the occasion, all about him and his mountain. (Actually, everyone loved him and meant no malice.)

Everyone knew the story of how, in 1940, when my dad was about 68, he bought 150 acres of mountainous land in North Carolina, 30 miles from Asheville, henceforth called “grandpa’s mountain.” A creek roared over stones of every hue. There was an old dirt road, few neighbors, no electricity, no mail delivery. lots of snakes, apple trees, beautiful rhododendrons. Jake built a stone and log cabin, with hardwood floors in the living room in case the family wanted to square dance, a fireplace, and a fish pond to raise fish.

At that time, competent workmen had gone off to the war or were too busy to help, so he—a retired optometrist—and the farmers he had befriended added on a new room every summer. The cabin was practical enough for my dad and mother and me and my young babies to keep cool during the three years my husband spent in WW2 in Europe. Who cared if it was very cold at night and in the morning, or if we had to boil water to wash diapers and rub them because they were so cold and stiff? You see, in 1940, in the mountains of North Carolina, without electricity or indoor plumbing, we kept food in the springhouse, but not for long, and the outhouse was luxurious: two holes. But we were calm and cool, away from the heat of Cincy, and we were learning about a new culture—of the mountaineers. This was especially educational for our children. One son’s birthday – Mark’s – fell in August, so we invited the poor children of our neighbor for ice cream and cake and gave them presents. It was a good lesson.

My dad loved the mountains because there his hot feet felt cool. There his aches and pains disappeared, there he loved to walk and barter with the mountain people. He gave them glasses, they gave or sold him eggs and chickens and corn, and they appreciated him. They named his mountain Raphaelson’ s mountain. But that’s another story.

As much as my dad loved the mountains, my mother hated it. The roaring creek kept her awake at nights. It was too isolated, too primitive for her taste.

And to this day family and friends still occasionally go visit “grandpa’s mountain.” Of course, from neglect, the apple trees are gone, the grape arbor is no more, and the fish pond dried up. (Our daughter, Nancy, Professor of Classics, lives closest and still maintains close ties to the place.)

So you see, new experiences, curiosity, adventure runs in my genes.

Romance

I remember dad wanted a romance in his old age. He loved his younger friend, Lillian, who had helped him with his books on myopia. She excelled in many ways: typing, cooking, upholstering, sewing, carpentry. He admired her skills; unfortunately (or maybe fortunately) she had a young and handsome husband.

My dad was able to buy silk stockings, unattainable during the War, because he had a brother-in-law in the hosiery business. He gave them to lady friends, when he and Ida (my mother) drove to Florida and stopped at their homes. This female appreciation and warmth made him feel like a king, he said. Was this romance? Was mother jealous?? I’ll never know. But he sure talked about needing seven women!!

What about my old age romance? Maybe I don’t want to admit my age, seeing that my friend is younger than I-a spry, brilliant 84 year-old widower who plays tennis every day. Until her death, I played tennis with his wife. Our dates are very funny. One evening, I saw him at the opera alone, so I asked him if, next time, I could have a lift. He was very gracious. We didn’t sit together, but since it was pouring cats and dogs-a real deluge-I was extremely grateful (I hate to drive at night, especially in such a downpour). We went to two operas-most pleasant evenings, especially since one of the operas was “La Traviata,” my favorite.

Our second date was at a funeral home. A mutual friend had died. He greeted me warmly but sat next to another lady. I laughingly told another ex-tennis partner sitting next to me, “He ditched me for her.” “Oh,” she said, “I’ve had several dates with him too! He has many lady friends.” A regular Casanova, I thought, or is it Don Juan?

Our third “date” came several months later. He called, had a movie he wanted me to see right then. He brought it over. “Sit here,” he said, “and I’ll hold your hand.” “Wow, this is progress,” I thought. After the movie we went out to a Buffet Chinese restaurant. Now this man is very lean, not one ounce of extra fat on his body. He ate so little, I was afraid to fill my plate. For dessert, he chose two strawberries; I gingerly chose just one. At this rate, I mused, I’ll really reduce my waistline. (I thought of how, once, at a wedding buffet I stood behind a 350 pound gentleman; I really lost my appetite!) Maybe this was another way to lose those extra pounds.

In conclusion, I must say, romance is difficult at any age-teenage, middle age, or in one’s golden years.

And now for my adventure:

I had been to Boston to attend a Bat Mitzvah. Let me explain. Dating back to medieval times, a Bar Mitzvah marked the coming of age of a Jewish boy. Decades ago, our Reform heritage added a similar ceremony for girls, a Bat Mitzvah. Both observances mark the young person’s affirmation of responsibility as an adult and as a Jew. To stand before the Torah as a Bar or Bat Mitzvah means to affirm the basic values of study, community service, commitment to the Jewish people, and faith in God. Although traditionally the student only reads from the Torah during the ceremony, in reform congregations he or she leads most of the service and gives a talk. In contemporary times, a reception usually follows, with good food and presents.

I took a train from Boston to NY, a cab to Battery Park. Why? My daughter Nancy had called me and said, “Mother, you always said you wanted to live in NY, explore different neighborhoods, go to museums and plays. Here’s your chance! There’s a wonderful retirement building in Battery Park, where you can rent a condo. A Miss Sullivan will call you. I gave her your name.” Since I was planning to be in NY anyway after my trip to Boston and Cape Cod, I called Miss Sullivan. I had never been in NY on my own. The idea was appealing.

The apartment at Battery Park, as it happened, was tastefully furnished. There was a lovely basket of fruit and a bottle of wine to greet me in my room. A friendly lady showed me the pool, the library, the health club, the dining room, and other activity rooms. What an ideal situation!

There are many trips and activities planned and available, I found out: concerts, movies, bridge, art lessons, lectures–all free. To rebuild the environment the Lower Manhattan Development Corporation has designed a grant project for all residents for a huge discount. That afternoon I took a walk in the park in front of our building. Then I walked two blocks to the East River and then to the big hole where the World Trade Center had stood. This was extremely sad. And yet it was satisfying to be exploring a new neighborhood in NYC by myself.

After an excellent dinner with two ladies and one gentleman (there are at least .. ladies to every man) I decided to take a painting class. The teacher said, “I can’t believe this is your first try. Wonderful!” I felt like Grandma Moses.

That evening a shuttle bus took a group of residents to beautiful Trinity Church in the neighborhood and we listened to a Brahms concerto. Next day, after a delicious breakfast, my granddaughter Sabrina came over and we took a shuttle to the new Jewish Holocaust Museum. (She is an intern at NYU’s Bellevue Hospital and great company.) The museum has a new wing and is located on the water. We walked around the lovely park and said hello to the statue of Liberty. Pleasant experience. Then we walked and visited my grandson Alex’s office. He is an ecological landscaper. This was very interesting because his boss Ken Smith had come in second in the contest to replace the WTC. First prize went to that group in Germany. Alex’s firm is doing some of the landscape of a neighboring building and of a park on the East River.

After another excellent dinner at Battery Park I attended a mental aerobics class (aerobics with words). Then there was a choice between a fitness class or a talk by a chief of medicine from a nearby hospital.

At noon I was expected to leave so I called my grandson’s house and moved over there, on 52nd and First, where I spent three days and nights enjoying my great granddaughter Madeleine and her mother Janine, my grand-daughter-in-law, a lawyer from Belize. Before I leave my adventure, in case anyone here is interested in visiting NY, here are some options.

One can try out a free stay at Battery Park for two nights, two dinners, two breakfasts. One can rent an apartment there for a week or a month or a year. Health assistance is available, according to one’s needs. One and two-bedroom apartments are available. All the amenities and the shuttle are free.

Well, my adventure was soon over. Besides a misadventure with my bags when I arrived at the Dayton airport, all had gone well. The trip was memorable.

To conclude my saga, my message is, first: Never lose your curiosity. Second, never lose your desire for adventure; and Third, always be open to romance.