Are We Old Yet?

Mrs. Wurtzel was the first old lady I ever knew.

I thought of her as I realized that I was now one, as well, and probably older than when we met over seventy years ago. Unlike becoming eligible for Medicare or Social Security, there is no prescribed age to stop believing that ‘seventy is the new fifty’, and for those of us prone to denial, it may require a strong splash of reality.

Finding yourself invisible to the opposite sex despite carefully dressing and applying makeup, can be one. Forgetting what you were looking for when you reach the other end of your apartment, is another. One too many whatchamacallits is also a biggie. For me, it was fracturing my brittle elbow after falling during a routine stroll.

My epiphany sparked memories of Mrs. Wurtzel and other elderly people I’d known. Perhaps some guidelines for the road ahead were embedded?

Older people were absent from my early life as well as that of most of my friends. Our parents were Holocaust survivors, and grandparents appeared only as fictional characters in the books I read. So, in addition to being a beloved next-door neighbor from the time I was five years old, Mrs. Wurtzel was a source of wonder that a nosy kid could observe on a regular basis.

There were several apartment buildings on our block, as well a row of attached stores, each of which had an apartment above it. Hers was the one over Mr. Rose’s grocery and we lived atop the shoemaker. Even at a young age, my go-to denial mechanism was in place; I was under the impression that we lived palatially. Besides being able to roller skate or jump rope after the store closed in the evening, almost every upstairs apartment had a spacious porch in the back which was constructed over the roof of the store. The kitchen door opened onto it and each spring, once my mother painted the entire porch and each of the metal chairs, our small apartment expanded into the great outdoors. It was during the warm weather months that I saw Mrs. Wurtzel most often.

Her children and grandchildren came every Sunday for their lively family barbeques, which always ended with planning the next week’s get-together. Even more than the interactions of a large extended family, I was enchanted by their Brooklyn accents which contrasted with my version that included infusions of my parents’ mispronunciations.  I loved hearing and then mimicking “Goin’ shoppin?” “Yeeah”.  “Wanna haambuger?” “Yeeah”.

During the week, Mrs. Wurtzel often placed a pillow on her window sill and rested her head on it as she sat for hours contentedly watching the street action on Ocean Avenue. She never looked embarrassed or unhappy if we passed by and waved, nor did she summon up sympathy. Even after her husband died, she never seemed to be in a bad mood, and even appeared to be more comfortable alone. Were they as different and unsuited as they had appeared to my young eyes? He sounded fully American while she retained a thick accent many years after leaving Eastern Europe and always spoke to my parents in Yiddish. He would greet us annoying kids barging into their kitchen through the porches with a scowl and a ‘close the door, will you please?’ before returning to his newspaper, while she always had a welcoming smile and would ask us about our lives. Perhaps they were incompatible, but my older self knows it’s impossible to judge someone else’s marriage.

After I grew up and moved to my own apartment, a short phone interaction with a different elderly woman left a deep impression. “Fanny Berkowitz”?, asked a caller who was checking up on a member of her senior citizen center who hadn’t been seen of late. She rejected my assurances that I was not who she was looking for, and kept rephrasing the question as if to trick me into the correct response, “Do you belong to the senior center?” “Are you feeling well?”. “Is your name Fanny”? I finally made my point when I said, “I’m twenty five years old”. There was an audible gasp followed by a sustained silence as she contemplated the vast gap between us. She then retreated softly saying “have a nice life.”

Then there was the icky memory of Mr. S. who lived at a residence for seniors in Coney Island. It was then referred to as an old age home, but the idea is the same. Many elderly people, mostly women, eating together and participating in whatever activities they could.

He approached me at the end of one of my Friday volunteer gigs in which my sister accompanied me on the piano as I sang Hebrew and Yiddish songs. He had been a renowned composer for the Yiddish stage, and he gave me his sheet music to take home and practice. He was also a virtuoso pianist and began accompanying me on Fridays when I added his beautiful songs to my repertoire.

I was an elementary school music teacher at the time and my Friday entertainment sessions were limited to the summer, when I had a two-month vacation. Before returning to work that fall, he asked me to continue visiting during the school year, and I promised that I would in the way young people often make pledges to the elderly; with an air of self-righteousness mixed with condescension.

I didn’t show up, though, until one Sunday at the beginning of the next summer, and was met by a surly Mr. S. who berated me for not coming sooner. He told me that he was far too busy to see me that day, but asked me to wait while he brought some music for a song that he wanted me to practice and then come back the next day to rehearse.

On Monday, I was told that he was having lunch in his apartment and was expecting me there. His tiny room was decorated with pictures of him with various women of the Yiddish stage, including Molly Picon. He was lying on his bed, which he bade me to sit on, and from his prone position, he started to conduct the music as I sang it over and over. Then he announced that he was hungry and craving a pastrami sandwich, which was not on the menu.

When I returned from a local deli with the coveted food, he sat down on a chair near the door and devoured it as I stood in front of him ready to bolt. When he finished eating, I bent down to plant a cordial good-bye kiss on his cheek, but was met by an outstretched tongue. I preferred to think it was an accident, and departed quickly wiping my mouth. I was not only unprepared for his wet kiss, but I have never liked pastrami. Before my hurried exit, he asked me to come back the next day.

On Tuesday, he was in the infirmary wing. I found him lying in a hospital bed, and I stood  next to it as he once again started to conduct a song I never really learned or liked nor understood what I was practicing for. In the middle of our rehearsal, someone brought in his lunch tray and left it across the room. I asked him if I should bring it over, and he pronounced angrily, “dog food!”. I nervously named the items on the tray and asked which he would like.

“You!”, he demanded, as he suddenly sat upright while simultaneously latching on to the belt loops of my tight jeans, which he then attempted to push his hand into. This time there was no question of his intentions and I stepped away. “No?”, he asked, as he opened his eyes widely. “Tomorrow you’ll be at my funeral, and you refuse?” “Yes!”, I replied without hesitation. Then he turned his back to me, thus presenting from that angle the usual view of a patient in a hospital gown.

I later joined a UJA volunteer entertainment group, which gave young and somewhat talented people the opportunity to perform. We went on Sundays to Jewish senior centers and residences, and together with a belly dancer, clown, cantor, and opera singer, I enjoyed the stage and the satisfaction of giving joy to our audience. In truth, the latter assumption wasn’t always valid, as members of the audience did sometimes walk out in the middle of a show, which was not an easy task for most of them.

Some, however, came over after the performance to express gratitude and even praise. Others approached just to talk and be heard. They taught me songs they thought I should learn for future appearances and imparted general wisdom. To my surprise, a constant one was “get married”, something I had thought only my mother wanted me to do.

Mostly, though, they simply wanted to unburden themselves. One elegant woman regally holding a black leather pocket-book on her arm, told me that she had always thought of ‘little old ladies’ as kindly people, but she was wrong. Living in this residence, she found that she was often lonely and unable to even find a welcoming place to sit in the dining room. I shuddered to think that the horrors of fifth grade could be replayed.

Other than learning to question the health benefits of pastrami, I’m still processing my memories to extract additional takeaway. What I do know, though, is that I’m grateful to each of the players who made appearances in my life and provided glimpses into what’s to come. Take a bow!