Aging

george-booth-i-would-embrace-the-aging-process-if-i-could-lift-my-arms-new-yorker-cartoonMy Mom, when she was 80, said to me, “Bernie, I wish I was 20 and knew then what I know now.” My response was, “Mom, That’s a contradiction in terms.” Perhaps by sharing my experiences and what I have learned from the time I was 20 until now can help others. Just to prove I’m keeping up with the technology, from time to time I post my experiences on this blog. Trust me, when I was growing up we didn’t have blogs! In the following series of posts on aging, I’ll tell you about some of the issues I’ve faced and how I’ve dealt with them. My hope is that this series will help you, no matter what your age, to understand some of the challenges older folks, like me, have.

Aging is isolating. It’s harder to get around. Friends die off or disappear. Your energy level ain’t what it used to be. You can’t do what you used to. Much of the new technology leaves you behind. Even though I use a computer and even have a blog, I never learned to text or twitter. I-Phones with their Apps are too difficult to deal with, even if I could afford one on my limited budget. People don’t talk to one another now, not the way we used to. Instead of picking up the phone they e-mail or text, and I don’t use a cell phone except for emergencies. Moreover, younger people have their own lives and appropriately, their own agenda. Continue reading “Aging”

The House I Grew up in

bernie's houseAbout a month ago Grace Camblos, a biographer, photographer, and author, invited me to participate in a four week memoir writing class.  One of the “prompts” she gave to us was to write about, “The house I grew up in.”

I remember it well. The address was 144-15 33rd Ave., Flushing, Long Island, NY. We moved there in about 1938. It was a two-story house with a finished attic and basement and was the third of three houses on the block. They were the first of many, built by Abraham Levitt, who went on to develop Levittown on Long Island and in Pennsylvania.

I was 14 in September of 1942 and I just got back from eight weeks at Camp Man, the Queens County summer Boy Scout camp, at Ten Mile River in upstate New York. It was a Monday morning and the High Holidays had just begun.  My grandmother’s room was just next to mine at the head of the stairs. I got dressed and was heading off to school — to Fieldston. As I passed my Mema’s room, her full-time nurse came out and said, “I can’t revive her.” We went into her room and turned her over so she was face down with her head to the side. I climbed on top of her and rhythmically pressed down on her rib cage administering artificial respiration 1940’s style, that I learned how to do as a Boy Scout.There was no resistance, no push back. Her body did not respond to the pressure. I could not revive her. Reality struck. I felt the difference between life and death. I felt it in my hands.

Continue reading “The House I Grew up in”