Soon after I graduated from Brownie to Girl Scout, my troop visited an assisted living facility (they were called nursing homes back then, and at least in Kentucky they were also called old folk’s homes). My fellow scouts and I, neatly dressed in our new green uniforms, were each paired up with one of the residents, men and women to whom we were to give a small begonia plant our leaders had schlepped over from the basement of the church where we’d planted them in cute little pots. The woman who was my partner, and to whom I proudly offered up my gift, eagerly accepted it and promptly began eating the dirt. I was appalled and terrified and didn’t know what to do. I was young, and it was very traumatic.
I didn’t ever want to go to a place like that again.
I guess I got over it, though, because throughout my life I’ve been drawn to the company of seniors (in Portland, they we are called “honored citizens”). I’m sure part of the reason is that I had a set of grandparents whom I adored, especially my grandmother Dearie. I loved riding my bike over to Dearie and Pawpaw’s house on my way home from elementary school. In a special drawer was a stash of Sweet Tarts and Juicy Fruit chewing gum. As soon as I parked my bike in their front yard and said a quick hello, I raided the drawer, then I’d get a bottle of Coke from the refrigerator and just sit and talk. In late spring, Dearie always planted a row of purple petunias along the edges of the yard. In summer, I got to help pick cherries from the big tree behind their house and then watch Dearie make cherry jelly. One afternoon she caught me smoking with the McCool brothers who lived next door (I do not lie, that was their last name). She told me she wouldn’t tell my mom when she came to pick me up, but that she wouldn’t let my mom leave until I'd told her myself. In fall, we raked the leaves into huge piles, played in them for hours and then carried them to the curb where we burned them. I can still conjure up the smell of the smoke, which for me is the definition of autumn. It was in their narrow hallway that I would flick the lamp on and off and stare at my eyes in a nearby mirror, watching my pupils get big when I turned off the light and small when I turned it back on. There was time to make discoveries like that when I was in their presence, as time seemed to slow way down. I can still remember the exact layout of their small house, and I regularly dream about being in it.
Over the course of the 38 years Eddie and I lived in Kansas City, I had many opportunities to spend time with and to get to know older adults. At our Temple, at my gallery and especially in the Jewish community at large when I began photographing the city’s Holocaust survivors. Some became friends, a handful became something like surrogate grandparents. All offered little nuggets of wisdom or insight.
One of my older friends died this past week. He lived to be 101. He was a remarkable man who leaves a giant void in every aspect of Kansas City life. He and his wife were regulars at my gallery and later supported both my self-publishing ventures. He called Eddie and me on every birthday and on our wedding anniversary, too. We heard from him as recently as the end of May. (He called practically everyone he knew on their special occasions, and there were hundreds of people at his 100th birthday party, so you can imagine how much time he spent on the phone wishing people well). His end of year holiday letter was so inspiring I forwarded it to friends and family. Bert encouraged all of us to try to be curious, engaged and active. To be inclusive and see the best in each other. To love and respect nature. And to be open, kind and big-hearted. Thinking about him has called to mind other seniors I’ve had the honor to know… people who've inspired me in lots of other ways.
Some years ago I did portraits of many of the residents of Kansas City’s Jewish assisted living facility, Village Shalom, a beautiful community that managed to dispel most of the lingering distaste I held for such places. I got to know some lovely people, just as I did with the Holocaust survivor project. Here are a few of the pictures I made, as well as an installation shot in the hallway where they are displayed.
Dearie was my longest living and most beloved grandparent. She died when I was 26. The first two pictures are:
My sister and I with Dearie on the front steps of her house in the mid 1960's.
A portrait I made of her in the mid to late 1970’s.
The rest are all from Village Shalom.
