Obama, Oy Vey: The Wit and Wisdom of My 107-Year-Old Mother

Obama, Oy Vey:

The Wit and Wisdom of My 107-Year-Old Mother

Steven Zwerling

Copyright 2015 Steven Zwerling

Smashwords Edition

Cover Art by Melissa Middleberg

For Rona and Mother Zwerling

CONTENTS

Introduction: How Much Longer Can She Live?

Henry Cross

The Ladies of Forest Trace

The Glass of Water

The Ladies Are Resting

Moose

It’s Because He’s Black

More Than Two Lifetimes

Lunch With the Ladies

Obama, Oy Vey

Uncle Ben and Danny

Nothing Wonderful

Oral Surgery

Rand Pail and Chuck Schmoozer

Immaculate Generation

Senator Cruel

Are You Limping?

Chris Crispy

Three Saturdays

Alive and Kicking

Briefly Noted

My Darling

India

About the Author

Introduction: How Much Longer Can She Live?

May 21, 2008 "How much longer can she live?" Rona, who loves her dearly, asked about my nearly 100-year-old mother.

I shrugged.

Really. How much longer?

About these things no one knows, I attempted to sound philosophical, Could be years. Could be days.

I mean, actuarially.

Actuarially she should already be dead.

Not that I wish that, of course. I mean--

I know what you mean, I said, It will be sooner rather than later. But, what’s your point? I was feeling a little annoyed.

My point is, Rona said, considering her age, you should begin to call her more than three times a week and we should visit her in Florida more often. During the few remaining--

No need to go into the gory details. I get your point. I agree with it. I’ll call her every day, and we’ll spend more time in Florida even though . . . I couldn’t bring myself to complete the thought.

Rona, however, was not reluctant to do so—Even though we hate it there.

Sad but true. Look, I’m almost 70 myself, I rarely admitted to this. It’s too depressing. And being there with all the old people makes me--

Like our friend Reggie says, Florida is Spanish for waiting to die.

Which probably explains why everyone eats dinner at four o’clock. They don’t want to miss their last meal.

This was more than six years ago and my mother is now almost 107, generally doing well, and I am . . . Well, you do the arithmetic.

During these six-plus years I have in fact called her every day and not only have we visited more frequently, but for the past five years have also snowbirded in South Florida, in a nearby town, spending three or four months in residence, so we could visit her at least once a week.

As Rona said, One never knows.

But, who would have thought—seven years!

Back in August 2008, just as the Democratic primary narrowed down to Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama, more and more of my conversations with Mom focused on that. And I began to write these stories.

This was a complicated political situation for my mother and her friends—the Ladies of Forest Trace—because a number of them had been suffragettes and were eager to see a woman elected President before they passed and almost as many, lifelong progressives were attracted to the idea that an African American might be elected. So, they were very conflicted.

Matters were even more complicated because back in 2000, when George W. Bush defeated Al Gore, Bush was able to carry Florida (with the assistance of the Supreme Court) because so many of the girls had mis-punched their ballots and left so many chads hanging, that a recount and court intervention was the result.

In other words, my mother and her friends felt responsible for the Bush presidency and, this time, they wanted to be sure to atone for what they had caused by helping to elect either Hillary or Barack.

Obama, as we know, won the nomination, was elected and reelected in large part, the Ladies thought, because he carried Florida, which, they thought was the result of their efforts.

Over the years my mother and I, on the phone and during visits, had many more conversations of this sort; but as the months and years passed, more of what we talked about turned to aging itself and the inevitability of time. But for the most part these latter conversations and stories were not sad or even depressing. She has been, more often than not, optimistic about the Future (capital F) as well as her own future (lower case), particularly at those times when she is not feeling well and could understandably fear both futures.

The last of these stories, India, for example, has her encouraging Rona and me to live our lives, not to worry about her, because, as she is not reluctant to remind me, I too am getting up there.

And actuarially, when it comes to me, who knows . . .

Henry Cross

June 28, 2008 When visiting with my mother on Saturday to celebrate her 100th birthday, I did one of those silly things one is inclined to do on such occasions.

Rather than asking her which invention or technological development that occurred during her lifetime was, in her view, most consequential--electric lighting, radio, TV, airplanes, the Internet--instead, I asked what single lesson she learned that she felt was most important in guiding her.

Without missing a beat, she said, Do unto others as you would have them do to you.

I totally agree, I said, once again amazed by her mental acuity and what she chose to offer as her guiding principle.

I think, without your preaching it to me, that by your example, I learned that Golden Rule and hope I also have been at least partially inspired by it.

She smiled at me as if to say, as I hoped she would say, that she feels I, for the most part, have been a good person.

To test that, I asked if I could tell her a story about something I had never before revealed to her that had been troubling me for more than 60 years.

She continued to smile at me.

A few years after I was born, you returned to teaching and needed someone to care for me during the day. You hired Bessie Cross to do that. You remember her, don't you?

She nodded and said, Of course I do. She was wonderful. And do you remember she had a son, Henry, who was about two years older than you?

Yes. Of course I do. In fact, my story is about him. Henry Cross. And it is relevant to mention that he was black.

With my heart beating faster, I continued, "One summer because Bessie Cross had to return to South Carolina to take care of her mother, who still lived on a plantation where she and Bessie as a young girl had picked cotton, Henry came to live with us.

And since at that time I was an only child and our apartment had only two bedrooms, he slept on the daybed in my room. At night, lying side-by-side, we shared stories while waiting to fall asleep. He became like a brother to me. I liked to hear about his family, especially his Aunt Sis and Uncle Homer who tended the coal-fired boiler and steam heat system in the basement of an apartment house not far from our house. They lived in that basement too, and I loved to visit them with Henry. Aunt Sis would make us chocolate milk and pecan cookies that I can to this day still taste. They were that good.

I remember your bringing some home for me one day. I had them with a cup of tea.

"After his mother returned from South Carolina, for years Henry continued to stay with us on weekends and the two of us would join our friends in street games. Since he and I were good athletes we were among the first to be chosen when it came time to choose up sides.

When we were done playing the whole gang of us would go to one of our mother's houses for milk and cookies. This went on for some years. But then a terrible thing happened.

What was that darling?

What I never told you about. I took a deep breath. One Saturday, after a punchball game, we were invited to Stanley Shapiro's house for our usual milk and cookies.

I remember his mother. She was such a nice woman. I wonder if she is still alive.

Probably not. That was more than 60 years ago. We sighed together about the effects of time. "Well, all of us, including Henry, walked over to her porch where she had set up a card table with pitchers of cold milk and stacks of oatmeal and chocolate chip cookies. As we were passing these around, Mrs. Shapiro came over to me and whispered that she had something she needed to tell me.

"'In the house,' she pointed.

Puzzled, I followed her inside where her 14-year-old daughter Rosalie was hovering. Mrs. Shapiro leaned close to me and said, 'It is of course all right for you to stay. You are always welcome in my house; but your friend, he has to leave.' Protectively, she glanced over at her unhappy-looking daughter.

That sounds terrible, my mother said.

That's only half of it, I said. "I went outside again and saw Henry waiting his turn to get a glass of milk. I took him aside and told him what Mrs. Shapiro had said.

Henry did not look back at me nor did he say a word in response. Rather, he turned and raced down the steps and then along East 56th Street toward Church Avenue.

I heard my mother inhale.

I never saw him again, I said, tearing up. The memory of that sweltering summer day rushed over me as if it were yesterday.

When I gained control of my emotions, I confessed that I did not follow after him because I chose to stay behind with my neighborhood friends. I had trouble continuing the story.

Here's what I've wanted to ask you, I managed to say to my mother on her 100th birthday. "If I had asked you later that day what I should have