The oldest - The Jewish Standard

There’s this concept in human life known as longevity. It’s got to do with how long an individual will live, in health and mental acuity. There are signs when something is going awry. I’ve learned that grip strength is a big indicator. Using that as a determinant I must be long overstaying my welcome here on earth, since I cannot easily open a jar. Never could. Go know that that was even important.

And, of course, there’s mental decline, dementia. I’m really in trouble here. I’m your classic old lady who walks into the room, opens the fridge, and is totally clueless about what I’m looking for. Too late for me to go back to doing crossword puzzles as a tool to jar my brain into action.

And please remember what I don’t, why I was telling you an anecdote, got interrupted, and lost it completely. That didn’t happen in my youth. It’s called losing the train of thought and it’s not very good!

I shouldn’t be too surprised that I’ve got all these signs of senescence since I’m now the oldest woman in my family’s history. No other female relative has ever reached the age I am now. I don’t really know if that’s the good news or the bad news. But it is the true news! If you argue that I can’t possibly know this since I can’t see a certified reflection of my family’s past, I’ll agree with you. Maybe there was a Neanderthal going back some thousands of years, named Tzeitel or some such, who lived to be 200. Maybe. But very remotely possible. I’m genuinely certain that no female relative of mine got this far. Perhaps I’m giving myself the evil eye, the so-called ayin ha ra, but we Jews are supposedly not superstitious. Right?

Up until now my mother was the old-age honoree. She lived until 85 and would have probably survived to a significantly older age if the Supersol delivery boy in Herzliya hadn’t driven his fast-moving bicycle in the wrong direction down Rehov Sokolov, plowing into her without as much as a beep on his tin horn or a verbal command to move. After all, the “mishloach” groceries had to go through, and the old lady, somebody’s mother, in this case mine, was in his way. He didn’t actually kill her. He just took the lifeblood from her, fracturing her hip, marking her as a newly crippled person, no longer able to function the way she had for those previous 85 years. She soon entered a Kfar Saba nursing home, which was clearly the end of the beginning. Dad, who lived until a week shy of 98, dutifully and daily took two buses each way to visit her, undeterred by the brutal summer heat or the pounding winter rain, skipping only Shabbatot and chagim when the buses didn’t run. If I ever needed further convincing of the depth of their love it was those exhausting trips that he insisted were not beyond his power. And once she died, he continued his journeys, heading in the opposite direction to the Old Herzliya Cemetery, by foot, a very long walk. She was, of course, no longer able to nag him about putting on a hat, taking a bottle of chilled water, or carrying an umbrella. So he didn’t.

My two grandmothers were denied old age. I was named for Dad’s mother, Rivka (which somehow translated the way we Jews do it to Rosanne/Shoshana. Huh?). She died before her 50th birthday, around the time of her sixth — and first American-born — child’s bar mitzvah. As an old man he once told me about the trauma of that event, still with tearful eyes.

Mom’s mom Peshka lived until 63. Mom always said she died of overwork in their Catskill hotel, which we knew as the Bauman House. She was up milking the cows in the middle of the night to make the butter for her freshly baked rolls that the guests relished at their morning gorge. If you visit our house, you will find her milking stool sitting on our front porch. It’s one of those things people keep, worth nothing but of inestimable value.

The various aunts and cousins didn’t do much better. Irene died at 48. Edna at 57. Gayle outlived two husbands and still had time to die young. Her sister Rita and her mother Edith did reach old age but, although they were contenders, they just squeaked by 85.

I’ve been inspired to write about old age since it seems to be so trendy these days. All these articles in newspapers, online, books, TV shows, and meetings throughout the country, all dedicated to discussing old age and how to deal with it. My only problem is that most of those leading, the discuss-ers, are not themselves old. They’re rambling on and on about me and my peers, as if we’re the elephants in the room, or is it the canaries in the mine? We’re the ones with, or better yet, without, the symptoms and the diseases presenting the challenges for our progeny.

What kinds of challenges, you ask? How about our driving? That’s a biggy. Should Mom and or Dad give up their cars? Certainly they’re too old to drive but it does make it easier when they can self-navigate. I remember a story from many years ago, when I was merely middle aged. A friend was describing her mother-in-law, who was ancient. I really don’t know just how ancient, but this old lady had many signs of failing health. She couldn’t see. She couldn’t hear. She was definitely senile. But my friend told me, thank goodness she can still drive to the hairdresser every week! Of course I chuckled. After all, who at 45 expects to soon be 85?

My own father decided on his 70th birthday that he would give up his driver’s license at 80. None of us believed him. He had been driving since his teenage years and never ever had even a minor accident. Flat tires always, but a scrape or dent never. We couldn’t possibly imagine him actually giving up his car.

But one thing about Dad. The only time he ever didn’t deliver what he said he would was when he said he would stop smoking. Otherwise honor was his raison d’etre. The 80th birthday arrived and the license, and the car, went. End of anecdote!

I’ve passed that magic number of 80,hoping to be hitting 87 in a few short weeks, with no intention of giving up my car, license, or dreams for the future, remembering a little poem from my high school days which still resonates with me. It’s by Robert Browning and you all know it. Grow old along with me. The best is yet to be.

I hope so!

Rosanne Skopp of West Orange is a wife, mother of four, grandmother of 14, and great-grandmother of 12. 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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