Please don’t fall! - The Jewish Standard

I don’t usually comment about Nancy Pelosi. After all, I only know her as an influencer, not as a friend. We’re close in age but that’s about it. Nonetheless, I was unhappy to hear that she fell down some stairs last week and broke her hip. Of course it could happen to her. Or Bernie B. Or your loyal reporter, me!

Old age has its moments. Few of those moments make life better! And Nancy has this proclivity to wear spike heels. I haven’t worn spikes in about 40 years. Doesn’t matter. I’m still a faller! And so, now, is Bernie.

Let me tell you about Bernie, my friend since we were much, much younger.

He was very recently overwhelmed by an urgent need to clean the kitchen floor. It was irresistible. Imperative that it be done at just that moment. The floor wasn’t really dirty, and the ozeret, the cleaning woman, was due the next day. But, no, it had to be done then, immediately. When we oldsters decide to do something, we just do it. After all, otherwise we just might run out of time!

He was in good shape for a 93-year-old. He still drove an enormous new Cadillac, a favorite car amongst well-heeled elderly New Jersey Jews, and he went to work every day. He definitely could afford for the ozeret to come more often. But, oh, then again, it would just take a minute to wipe down that floor. Never mind that it might get a bit slick. It would soon dry.

And so, you know the story already! He slid down the one step into the sunken den, and the rest, as they say, is history. Not mystery! We do know why it happened even though we may not quite understand the motive for his sudden burst of enthusiastic house cleaning. And since then, until now, about three months later, he’s been dealing with surgery, hospitalizations, extended care facilities, and now 24-hour daily aides.

When a senior breaks a hip, it’s never good news. As a matter of fact, it’s almost always bad news! One fall can take it all — all the anticipated lively living, and the craved independence, gone in a second. It’s totally true. You can break your hip in an instant, and then it’s there for you always.

I come from a family of hip-breakers, as I’ve previously reported. Thing is, you cannot say this enough. Humans, be careful! Each of us is careless, at least sometimes. We leave shoes lying around in unexpected places or we forget to turn on the light when we ascend stairs, an iffy enough activity even in the light. It is a challenge to be perpetually super-cautious.

I remember Pop, my maternal grandfather. He lived with us in our Aldine Street apartment. And what a presence he was in that home. He literally interfered in everything, both the positives and otherwise. I’ve often said that my father, a committed Jew named Litvak, could have been the first Jewish saint. He not only tolerated the complete loss of privacy but for every single moment of my grandfather’s life with us, Dad was a pillar of respect and love. It was his nature, even when it sometimes wasn’t so easy, when Pop had opinions that Dad might not have shared. Dad was known to become impatient with the rest of us at times, but never, in my recollection, with Pop.

Not that Pop wasn’t a convenient guy to have around. He volunteered for all the jobs that the rest of us resisted. Hence he was the dog walker, no matter the weather, and the male seamstress, since Mom had never learned to sew, a favor she thankfully passed on to her daughters. He was the presser (he had learned those typically female skills when he worked as a new immigrant in the garment center), the ironing board always open and the steam iron waiting patiently for the next item. He was also very helpful to Dad, serving as the handyman in lieu of our father, son of a carpenter, who was totally unable to do the simplest domestic chores. Pop had mastered all sorts of tricks to keep a house going in Parksville where he was the proud owner/manager of the Catskillian kuch alein known as the Bauman House, a place that needed constant fixing. So, when Pop got up in the morning he usually had a full day’s activities awaiting him, activities that none of the rest of us really wanted to do, but which he embraced with enthusiasm. No wonder that we all loved him! Very much!

Pop was also not a man to benefit from a broken hip. Not that I know of any such man but Pop especially was just too busy. Regardless, that’s what happened.

Every Wednesday he would shlep from Newark’s Aldine Street to Springfield Boulevard in Queens, where his son, Uncle Charlie, had a dental office. He would take the 107 bus from Lyons Avenue to the Port Authority bus terminal in New York City and onward to the subway to Queens for a brief visit before the return trek.

Somehow, on the last leg, pardon the pun, of the journey, someone accidentally pushed Pop’s very skinny body to the hard surface of the pavement. Pop, being a tough city guy, got up and went on his way. But by the time he reached Charlie, he knew he was in trouble. I honestly don’t remember all the sad details but he lived to tell the story, at least for a short time. He was henceforth crippled for those remaining days.

In 1960, a few scant months later, I was preparing for my finals at Newark Rutgers, and for our wedding at Steiners, whose previous incarnation had been my sometimes school, the Hebrew Academy of Essex County. No one was more ready for the big event, the wedding, than Pop. His wedding outfit was hanging on the outside of the door to his closet, a professionally cleaned and pressed navy blue pinstripe suit, wrapped in plastic for protection from dust. His shoes sat nearby, on a clean mat, shined until they glowed, and his brand new socks were tucked into them so there would be no last minute panic. “Oy gevalt. Where are Pop’s socks?” The belt that matched everything else was hanging nearby and a tidy new handkerchief was perched in the suit jacket’s pocket. A brand new starched white shirt completed the ensemble. This man was ready! More ready than the rest of us.

But, as my eyes well with tears, I must tell you, this beloved man never made it to the wedding.

There were three weeks to go before the wedding. Just three weeks. This do-it-all grandfather of mine, newly crippled, but ready to limp to the chuppah, lay down in his bed and never got up. The next day when I arrived home from school, there was a hearse in front of the house.

The rabbi told us the wedding must go on. And it did. But our feet were heavy as we danced, and our voices were strained as we sang. To this very day, 64 years later, I miss him still.

Be careful, my friends. Let us all commit to caution. Falling is dangerous!

Rosanne Skopp of West Orange is a wife, mother of four, grandmother of 14, and great-grandmother of eight. She is a graduate of Rutgers University and a dual citizen of the United States and Israel. She is a lifelong blogger, writing blogs before anyone knew what a blog was! She welcomes email at rosanne.skopp@gmail.com

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