Old People Say the Darnedest Things:
Episode #10: Vocab

Upper East Side, 5th Avenue

My Scrabble Friend is not a native English speaker (she grew up in Hungary), but her vocab is extensive. Occasionally she reads the dictionary, just for fun. And when reading a new book, she'll jot down any unknown words, look them up later and commit them to memory.

Often when I stop by for a visit, she'll show me her latest list of learned words.  "Do you know what "primipara" means?  And "subterfuge"?  "Sobriquet"?  "Vacuous"?" she'll ask, before concluding: "English is marvelous."

* * *

Sometimes her word choice surprises me.  Recently, she told me she'd mentioned - in passing - to her friend Jim that her toaster oven was on the fritz, and Jim dropped by a few days later with a replacement appliance.  A sweet gesture, to be sure, but everything in my Scrabble Friend's small apartment is either white, beige, or the palest lemon yellow, a calming color scheme she meticulously maintains.  This new toaster oven, however, was black and silver.  She showed me where she had stashed it, out of view, in the cabinet under her sink.

"At first I was going to tell him that it just didn't go," she confessed, "But then I said to myself, "Don't be an a**hole."

Always a good move when faced with generosity.

* * *

Later, she ended a story with "...and so I told her, "It's none of your cotton-pickin' business!""  I wonder which book she got that term from...

* * *

Yesterday, over a game of Scrabble, my friend brought up her memoirs, a project we've been slowly piecing together.

"I want to use the word 'flummoxed' in my story."

"Ok. What were you flummoxed by, in your life?"

"Oh, lots of things."

Yeah, me too. Me too.

Just To See

(This photo reminds me the littlest bit of my favorite Van Gogh painting)

On Sunday afternoon, I gave my Scrabble Lady a call to see if she was up for a visit. But after dialing the number of her landline, an operator message informed me the line was currently being repaired.  Strange.

There was no other way to reach her - she doesn't have a cell phone. Neither is she on email, as she's somewhat suspicious of computers. (Although she was inexplicably moved by Steve Jobs' death, going so far as to send a consolation card to his wife and venturing beyond the Upper East Side (a rare event for her) to visit the vigil at the 59th Street Apple Store.)

It was so beautiful outside on Sunday; I thought it might be possible that my friend was hanging out in the Conservatory Garden in Central Park, a familiar haunt of hers.  A slim chance, but I figured there are worse ways to fail.  So I set off across the park, towards the garden in the northeast corner. 

The north end was still pretty winter-bare: fountain was empty and no flowering plants to be seen yet.  These trees along the lawn will one day be full of blooms, but right now their gnarly branches are still exposed.

My Scrabble Lady got married in the garden (near where the above photo was taken) back in 1970.  And in December, if you can believe it.  She married a Tunisian man, 12 years her junior, but that is a story for another time.

Over 40 years later, my friend still lives in the same 6-floor walk-up apartment close to the garden. This place is special to her - she makes a point of introducing herself to all the park rangers who work here. They call her "Sweetie" and seem happy to see her. Every autumn, she picks up quinces that have fallen off their shrubs and makes a pie.

This yellow tree, near the 5th Avenue gate, provided the most color in the garden on Sunday.  (And that blue, blue sky behind?  Enough to make Ella scat.)

Once upon a time, my friend met a couple here, on the entrance steps.  The couple stayed in touch over the years, adding my friend to the mailing list for their home-made political newspaper.  Years later, they invited her to (what she thought was) a party, and she in turn invited me and another young friend of hers, Brando, hoping to make a love match of us.  The "party" turned out to be an off-kilter political meeting in the crowded and dusty home of two hoarders in need of serious help, and there was no match to be made.  But that too is a story for another time.

Snow-drops are fading already.  They'll be cleared out soon for daffodils, then tulips, then summer flowers, then fall plantings.  And so it goes.

The trellis, behind the lawn, is still bare-branched.  When the leaves come in, it'll be a green canopy.  My Scrabble Lady once showed me where raccoons like to nest, up on the joints of the trellis.  I looked for the raccoons, as well as my friend, but found neither.  (I did see a squirrel in a trashcan, though!) (not pictured.)

Beneath the trellis are 13 round tiles, representing the 13 original colonies.  I've lived in 3 of 'em, or approximately 23.08%.  #HistoricalMath

I scoured the entire garden, but no sign of my Scrabble Lady.  Probably she was off socializing somewhere. "I'm lucky I'm so gregarious," she has told me on more than one occasion.  True.

I'm lucky to know her, even if our paths didn't cross (as hoped) this past Sunday.  I left the garden and wandered south on 5th Avenue, past the East Meadow and then skirted the bottom of the Reservoir before heading home. I missed her company, but my path that day was sunny and sweet nonetheless.

Old People Say The Darnedest Things
Episode #9: Fightin' Words

St. Regis Hotel, NYC

An older gentleman was dining alone at a table behind us, during the lunch rush at an Upper East Side diner.  He stood and gathered his things to leave - shrugging on his coat, adjusting his plaid wool scarf - and accidentally bumped into my date in the process.

"Sorry, young man."

"No problem, sir."

"Say, I like this shirt you have," the old man said, touching him on the shoulder, "I might have to take it from you."

"Well, you'll have to fight me for it, sir," he replied good-naturedly.

The old man grinned, looked across the table at me, and said, "I'd rather fight you for her."

Cutest compliment ever?  :)

And sir - between you and me, the fight's in the bag.  I'd gladly lunch with you any day.

Old People Say the Darnedest Things
Episode 8: Gladys from Austin

My Scrabble friend isn't Southern, but there are still some strong similarities in speech between her and Gladys.  (Off the top: Mildly prone to tangents, telling it like it is, being adorable.)

PS - True confessions?  I love Jesus, but I drink a little, too.

Old People Say the Darnedest Things
Episode #7:  I Will Follow You

“If it’s not too much trouble, would you mind looking something up on the computer for me?”

I told my Scrabble Friend it was no trouble at all, and she wrote a long, African-sounding name on a piece of paper. “Can you find this gentleman? I knew him back in the 1960’s, when he was studying to be a doctor.”

"Sure," I said. “I’m impressed you can remember such a complicated name, all these years later.”

“Well, he made quite an impression on me. I wouldn’t say that I stalked him...but once or twice I did follow him on my bicycle.”

And so – 40+ years later – I am looking up this good doctor on the internet to see if I can determine his present whereabouts.

Google-stalking: the 21^st-century version of following a person on your bicycle?

Old People Say the Darnedest Things
Episode 6: Speaking of the Royals

A few months ago, I was visiting my Scrabble Friend on a Sunday afternoon. She showed me a Christmas card, made of heavy cardstock. It opened backwards, like a Hebrew book, though the cartoon illustration on the front looked more Scottish than Israeli. Inside was printed a generic holiday message and a signature – simply “Sarah” in loopy blue ink. Facing that were two pictures - real photographs glued into the card - of a man in a fur hat posing with two teenage girls.

“Do you recognize them?” she asked, and I admitted that I did not. “Should I?”

“You really don’t know who that man is?” Nope. I stared at him, stared at the girls, but nothing rang familiar.

“The card is from the Duchess of York,” she explained. “That’s Prince Andrew and their daughters.”

“Ohhh,” I said, “THAT Sarah. Fergie.” And then, “Wait, why did you get a card from the Duchess of York??”

She explained that when Fergie was dealing with a bunch of bad press last year, she had written the Duchess a note telling her to keep her head up and stand strong.

“I also told her how I had written to [Princess] Diana before, when she was going through a rough time, and how I recommended that she read The Natural Superiority of Women. So now I'm on their Christmas card list.”

"Oh, right," I said. Because, of course.

I love that my Scrabble Friend writes letters.  She writes letters to former classmates in Hungary.  She writes to a couple she met on vacation in Peru in the 80's.  She writes to an Irish artist and a young man in the Canary Islands, both former Scrabble partners of hers.

She also writes notes of encouragement to Roger Federer. (But not Nadal. Never Nadal. Don't even get her started on Nadal.)  She'll send an occasional letter to Hillary Clinton, to discuss her opinion on euthanasia. (I don't know why.)  Recently, she sent my mother (whom she has never met) a get-well card, after I mentioned she was having surgery.

My Scrabble Friend casts a wide net with her letter-writing.  She stays connected.  She sends well-wishes out into the world.

"What do you think of William and Kate?" I asked her, back when we were on the subject of royals.

"Well, I hope it goes well for them.  I sent them a postcard, with my congratulations."

Of course.

Old People Say the Darndest Things
Episode 5: The Lucky One

A tree in bloom, Conservatory Garden, Central Park

I went to visit my Scrabble Friend on Sunday.  It was her birthday (76!), so when she opened the door to  her apartment, I greeted her with a hug and a "Happy Birthday!"

And she said, "I'm a lucky b*tch!"

I'm a lucky b*tch, too.  To know her is to love her, and I'm awfully glad I do.

Old People Say the Darndest Things
Episode 4: And Then This Happened

My senior citizen Scrabble friend was showing me things. This is usually how our times together unfold: I arrive at her apartment, she offers me tea and/or an orange, she shows me stuff (newspaper clippings, the latest biography checked out from the library, new additions to her recycled Christmas card project, etc.), and then we play a game or two of Scrabble.

On this particular visit, she was showing me pictures she’d cut from Time magazine over the years – pictures she thought were interesting or pretty or otherwise worth saving. Like one of President Clinton, in his younger years, shaking hands with President Kennedy. Or the sepia-toned photo of an African-American man in a 1960's-cut suit, smiling at someone off-camera.

“I used to have such a crush on him,” my Scrabble friend said, “You know who that is?”

I didn’t. “Ummmm….Harry Belafonte?” I guessed.

“No, he was an activist. A civil rights activist.”

I took a closer look. And then I recognized him. “Is it Julian Bond?”

“Yes! You know who that is?”

And I told her I certainly did: He was one of my professors in college.

She thought that was a mildly interesting coincidence, but didn’t get too excited over it. She doesn’t get excited over much.

(With the possible exception of ticker-tape parades.  She gets real riled up about ticker-tape parades, because she thinks they're wasteful. Fortunately, they don't come up all that often in daily conversation.)

Later she brought out an album of black-and-white photos.  She wanted to show me pictures of her friend, Gertie, about whom I had heard many stories. There was one shot, probably taken in the 1940's or 50's, of Gertie and a man, dressed for an evening out on the town.  Gertie was wearing a fur-lined coat and looking away from the camera; the man next to her was in a tuxedo, flashing the photographer a confident smile.

And then this happened:

Me: Is that her husband? He looks very dashing.
Scrabble Friend: He had ambiguous genitalia.
Me: WHAT!?...How do you know that?
Scrabble Friend: I saw it.
Me: WHAT!?...How did you see it?
Scrabble Friend: He fell one time a few years back, and Gertie asked me to come over to help, and he was wearing a robe, and the robe was open, and I saw it.

She relayed this bit of news in the same matter-of-fact manner that someone might use to mention that paper towels were on sale at Duane Reade, or that it was going to be cloudy tomorrow.  I can't decide if her unwavering equanimity stems from being zen or being jaded, whether it's an admirable attribute or something to fight against.

In any case.  My Scrabble Friend may not be surprised by much, but I'm thankful that I'm usually surprised by her.

Old People (Continue to) Say
the Darndest Things

Fall Flowers in the Conservatory Garden

On Sunday afternoon, I climbed the six flights of stairs to my Scrabble friend’s Upper East Side apartment.  She is the primary reason I am traveling to Budapest and Vienna – I’m helping her write her memoirs, and I wanted to see both her Hungarian homeland and also the city where she briefly lived after slipping through the Iron Curtain during Hungary’s revolution in 1956.

Over a game of Scrabble, while we listened to classical music on her trusty cassette tape player, I tried to pump her for information about places she remembered visiting in Budapest and Vienna.  She mentioned a couple of sights in the former, but didn’t have much to say about the latter.

“I was a refugee in Vienna,” she explained, “I don’t remember much.  It’s all a blur.” 

Most of her memories of the city came from later trips, when she would travel to her hometown via Vienna.

"When I would go to visit Papá in the 1970's and 80's, I would usually fly into Vienna because it was closer to Papá than Budapest.  Also it was just easier to fly into Austria than Hungary."

"Because of the communists?" I asked.

"Yes,” she replied, “Because of all the communist crap.”

“Oh, right, I see.”

“Of course, I still had to deal with those a**-holes - forgive my French - on the train at the border-crossing, but it was easier."

“Right,” I said, “Sure.”  

I wonder if I can ever fully comprehend what it was like to live under communist rule.  I also wonder if I will ever be as full of vim and vigor as my 75-year old Scrabble friend. :)

She's a salty sailor, that one.

Old People Say the Darndest Things

Episode 2

On Sunday I met my Scrabble Friend on the sidewalk outside of her apartment. 

She was deep in discussion with her neighbor, a resident at Mt. Sinai Hospital named Ari.  The topic of conversation was Atul Gawande's book Complications, which had been well received by my Scrabble Friend's book club, but Ari didn't think much of it.  They agreed to disagree, and he fondly patted her on the shoulder as he walked east to reclaim his laundry from the laundromat, and we headed west towards the park.

It was sun-shiny and 50+ degrees; after a winter of Scrabble games played inside her apartment, we were ready to have a game in the great outdoors.  Plus, she said she wanted to show me the SnowDrops which were starting to bloom in the Conservatory Garden.  It seemed to me that we had just gone looking for signs of SnowDrops, but that was a year ago already.  We both remarked on how fast time passes.

Crossing Fifth Avenue, we peered into the park where half the city had congregated to enjoy this first taste of spring.  People were playing frisbie, teenagers were wearing flip-flops, dogs were running off the leash.  We passed a playground, overrun with kiddos crawling all over everything, swinging from swings and sliding down slides.

My Scrabble Friend paused on the sidewalk. "Just think, all of this - " she said, gesturing to the mob of children running around the playground, " - is a result of love-making."

Um, yep.  I guess that is accurate.

I may stress about the uncertainties in my life, but this much I know I can count on: SnowDrops will bloom every Spring, and old people will continue to say the darndest things.

"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven." (Ecc. 3:1)

Old People Say the Darndest Things

I was walking through the Diamond District the other week, cutting cross-town on my way to the subway.  It was cold.  I trudged along, hands in coat pockets, trying to shake off the work day while mentally reviewing my To-Do list for the evening ahead.

The sidewalks were populated with store owners greeting one another as they closed up shop for the night, and slow-moving tourists, and young professionals on their way to Happy Hour, and other people who defy classification.

Such as the older gentleman I passed who had repurposed a fire hydrant as a chair, and was sitting watching the world walk by on the sidewalk before him. 

New York is a town of go, go, go.  We all have somewhere to be, and we're all invariably late to get there.  It's rare to see someone just sitting.  Doing nothing.  I wondered what was wrong with him.

He apparently was wondering the same about me.  As I passed, I felt him give me a once-over glance and then...  And then.  And then, he said this:

"Heya - she needs a man!" 

Taking a quick pause for reflection, he continued again, announcing to the world with a certain smugness, "Yes. She needs a man."

Dammit.

(In other news, I'm in search of a new after-work cross-town route.  One less likely to make me cry.  Let me know if you've had positive experiences with, say, 48th Street.)