She and her "late" husband had moved to Florida from Pittsburgh almost 35 years ago, setting up residence in their condo along with dozens of other North Eastern Jewish "snow birds", and enjoying a carefree retired life.
With time comes change and the young mid life couples soon became octogenarians and ill, and not the contemporary "guys and dolls", they once were.
My Aunt was first the Chairlady of the Condo Social Club, and eventually with her popularity and ability to move and shake things, became the President.
And now at 87 was no more than a nuisance to younger Cuban young couples moving in with their families and different order or priorities.
So here we were in this period of time in my Aunts life, when she was no longer the "boss lady", the "queen bee", the "lady to go to", but just for many of the new tenants, an old lady and for most an invisible old lady.
But yet, in the hierarchy of life my Aunt still had other condo "lifers", who were down on the totem pole, making room for my Aunt to be at least closer to the middle rung then the very bottom.
One lady in particular was Rachel.
To see Rachel from a distance, was to witness a petite long silver haired woman wearing preppy jeans to her ankles with a pair of bright yellow "bobby socks" matched by a brighter pair of tennis shoes in a canary yellow bright enough to necessitate sun glasses.
Rachel, apparently, was quite the "cats meow" in her early days of Condo life, and for all of her flirtiness and girlishness behavior as a younger woman, was paying the price for a reputation which most likely was more hype than truth.
Rachel, however still liked her men and no matter her current age had the longing for and the desire to as she told me quite often, "touch a good muscle, and rest on a sturdier lap."
So, one day while waiting for my Aunt near the one and only bank of elevators in the building, Rachel, from a bout 5 condos away, shouts to my Aunt, "hold the elevator Meercy, I'm going to ride that nephew of yours to the bottom floor." Rachel chortled, she never laughed and started walking towards us.
My Aunt would have nothing of it and started to push the elevator button at least 10 time a second and said under her breath, looking at me, "she is a loon, she is a crazy loon."
As it happens with the science of gadgets, the more you push a button the longer it takes for said button to operate in the manner by which you so desire, and of course, the less than speedy Rachel, seemed to outpace the slower moving elevator and managed to arrive at the elevators standing between my Aunt and I and close enough to place her porcelain fingers on my bicep.
My Aunt having none of this did a protective dance to my other arm, grabbed my other bicep,like a vice and said very loudly, "pay no attention to her she is a foolish woman."
I blushed and was surprised at my Aunts comments especially since she spoke so loud, and that Rachel was next to us.
I did a stage whisper and said to my Aunt, " Aunt Meercy, Rachel is standing next to she can hear you."
My Aunt said, in an Ethel Merman type of stage voice, "nope, she is as deaf as they make them, deaf, deaf, deaf. If Rachel only heard half the things people say about her do you think she would be wearing yellow!"
A bit mortified, I was now held in place by the suddenly strong arms of two women in their eighties and escorted to the elevator.
There was, thank God silence on the ride down to the first floor.
Upon exiting from what seemed the endless elevator experience, my Aunt departed first, and Rachel still holding on to my bicep walked off with me.
I was about to say goodbye to her in my BIG voice, thinking the poor lady was so non hearing that even shouting would not convey my goodbye, when Rachel said to me in a bird like peep, " they think I am deaf, and I let them think that I am, it seems somebody needs to be at the bottom of the pecking order, and I feel I should help all of those sad older women feel better they have at least someone who is less than they are."
Rachel kissed me and did a sort of jitterbug dance step down the hall.
My mother, God rest her soul, moved to a high rise partial assisted living space when she turned 72.
She was very reluctant to move out of her two storied one basement home, but her children realized that living alone, living in a home with one bathroom on the second floor and the washer and dryer in the basement, in a home almost 90 years old was not the best way for any mother to enjoy her later years.
So with about a year of arguments, of denials from my mother that "over her dead body" would she ever move, the four kids won and my mother, pouty, angry, mad, pissed off (yes even Jewish mothers can get pissed off), was relocated in a one bed room same floor for everything apartment.
My mother was a stubborn woman, so little did we all know she immediately loved her new environment, but almost after a few months into her new "digs", my mother made the announcement that this new place was no longer a jail or a concentration camp, but actually a smart idea.
The cloud of guilt began to dissipate from the heads of my siblings, an we felt that my mother would have quite a few more years of happiness and contentment added to her life due to her new environment.
And we were right. My mother was at least 15 years older than most of the women there but being that she was in good health, she was part of the "in group of ladies."
It seemed my mother's the apartment building was secretly divided into three groups. The "go go's, the go slows, and the no go's.
And each group had their own position in the unofficial hierarchy of the building.
My mother was in the "A" list of the Canasta Club, the Cadillac of the Maj Jong players group, and sat at the Shabbat Queens table for friday night meals. As the song goes, "...nothin could be finer than to be in Carolina...", even though it was still Pittsburgh.
But then after 10 years of popularity bliss, my mother fell and broke her pelvis and hip. The ladies were wonderful, they sent her flowers and baked goods visited her in the hospital, and told her that her Maj Jong seat would stay cold until her "tuchis" touched the foam on the polyester cushion.
Then my mother returned, thinking it would be a triumphant home coming.
But this time my mother returned with a cane and a walker ( the two most dreaded of appliances in any senior center). And suddenly my mother became contagious. She was now an undesirable, cast to the no go's because, she now was old, and any one who came in contact with her cane and worst of all her walker would soon befall older age and they too would become one step closer to assisted death.
My other was devastated. My sisters and I tried our best to remedy this horrible state of events.
We went to Ruthie, the spry 69 year old monarch of the building and asked why no one wanted to sit next to my mother, or spend more than a few minutes with her, standing at least 4 feet away when they actually smirked at her. Ruthie was quite blunt, rolled up the sleeves on her beaded blouse, the one that read, OUR GRAM IS SO YOUNG!, and said your mother is feeble and feeble has its place.
The Fourth of July in Provincetown is a sun filled fun packed week of circuit parties, with more muscle per boy per square inch than almost anywhere else in the world. You want pretty you got it, you want physiques so above a 10 you have it, you want abs and 'cepts, and pecs that not only look like they were carved in granite you have or made by the Gods of Greece, wham bam m'am its there.
The boys of Provincetown, were all gorgeous, all gym-ed, and all beautiful and big.
There was one of many dances held a a local club, the line to get in was like standing in front of A&E window. Your had to shelter your eyes for fear that they would just boil out of the sockets from too much beauty.
My partner was working as a bar tender in a bar within the complex of the dance club. I was waiting to see him once he opened his bar and while waiting saw a few friends my age, late, late 50's, and started to chat with them as they stood in line to go to the muscle party.
These guys (my friends), at one time in their life were as perfect and pretty as muscled and manicured as any younger guy waiting to go dance.
But we have aged. And with age we grow angry that time which may have once been our best friend has now abandoned us it seems and has become more of a fair weather friend and has sagged our muscled a bit, tweaked our butts and found new places to add lines and creases.
My friends, however, for 50 something looked good, and still looked into the mirror of their youth seeing what was, more than what is. They somehow did not truly realize that looking good at a party for 20 somethings who look FABULOUS, makes looking good at 50, almost making you look good enough to look invisible.
As I said goodbye to the friends, heading over to kiss my man goodnight, I heard about 3 young prototype muscle bound lads start to laugh. They were pointing to my friends and saying that when were parents allowed to wear tight t-shrts, did someone open a few graves for fun, and did they make depends as form fitting as levi jeans?
Then they said, don't they know they had their day and that day is way done!
The hierarchy of life. Why does it seem that human nature becomes less nurturing and more nagging. More opinionated, more regulated by rules and regulations which never resonate well, but ring like a bad buzzer or burglar alarm. Who makes up these hierarchal standards? And why do we acquiesce?
For some of us its a long hard road we waiver and roam. For some of us getting to that spot when we can finally in hale deeply and pause to refresh and enjoy our journey, should be wonderful and any rule made should be a rule revoked.
But then we find ourselves in places where someone seems to be better, or bigger or healthier or happier, or richer etc, etc, etc.
Just not sure why!
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