We arrived in New Jersey at 5:18 p.m. The first actual New Jerseyan I met was the lady gas-station cashier.
“Will this be oh-WALL?” she asked, ringing up my coffee.
“Ma’am?” I said.
She gave me a no-nonsense glare. “I said ‘Will this be oh-WALL?’ Just the KWAH-fee?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She smiled. “Where you from?”
“Birmingham, ma’am.”
Another smile. She handed me a receipt and threw out a hip. “I ain’t your ‘ma’am,’ Alabama.”
We were officially welcomed into the Garden State by a celebratory traffic jam about the size of a rural voting district. After a few hours, we arrived at our destination. The Vista, a continuing care retirement community in Wyckoff.
I expected the Vista to be a nursing home. I expected three-pronged canes, and residents with walkers, all roving in tight social clots, like the Sharks and the Jets.
But the Vista is not a nursing home. At least not like any I’ve seen. This is a senior living community with first-class services and amenities, and over 160 finely detailed apartment homes offering stunning views of the Ramapo Mountains. This is a permanent cruise ship.
The staff couldn’t have been friendlier. Residents were just as friendly. Everyone kept asking Bobby and me to “twalk” for them. Apparently people in Jersey like listening to us twalk.
We carried our luggage through the hallways. On our short journey we were suddenly accompanied by three kind older ladies who wanted to know all about us. Who we were. Where we were from. And how come we were so cute.
Three elderly women turned into five. Five turned into 7. Seven turned into 12. Soon, Bobby and I were the biggest thing to hit the Vista retirement community since the dawn of Velcro shoes.
I made instant friends with a woman named Mary Miller. Mary is slight, with perfectly coiffed hair, flawless makeup, T-strap pumps, and pristinely reapplied lipstick. She is 92. Her Jersey accent is so thick you could spread it on Melba toast.
She had just gotten out of painting class and carried a small wet canvas. We were walking past her room when Mary invited me into her apartment.
I thanked Mary for the invitation but reminded her that I’m married.
She laughed, then threw open her door. “I’ll give you the hundred-dollar tour,” she said.
Mary and I discovered that we are, in fact, bosom friends. Her two-bedroom apartment was spotless. There were many of her paintings on the walls. Grandchildren paintings, landscapes, portraits of things she loves.
There was also a display case of handcrafted Buyer’s Choice figurine dolls. There must have been 20 or 30, all carefully posed on the shelves.
I asked about the dolls. Mary seemed genuinely touched by my question.
“Thank you for asking,” she said. “Nobody ever asks about my dolls.”
Next, Mary showed me her balcony. The small patio area was adorned with hordes of potted plants. Hibiscus, hydrangeas, and even a few tomato plants. Her balcony is positioned so she can see the main entrance to the retirement facility. Which is why she keeps a pair of binoculars handy.
“I keep up with what folks are doing,” she explained, aiming her binoculars into a nearby apartment á la Mrs. Kravitz.
Scattered throughout Mary’s apartment, I also noticed several framed photos of a gentleman with white hair and glasses. I asked who the man in the photo was.
“That’s my husband,” she said quietly.
His name was Nevin. Mary has a lot to say about Nevin. She tells me all about him. And with each story she recounts, I see more moisture gathering at the corners of her eyes.
“I never thought I’d be going through life without him,” she says with a pained smile.
“Oh, I love it here, don’t get me wrong. It’s so wonderful at the Vista. I paint, I exercise, I have so many friends. But you know what would make it perfect? If Nevin were with me.”
We embraced. She seemed a little surprised when I placed my arms around her. And I got the sense that it’s been a while since Mary has been touched. Bobby came in for Hug Number Two. I followed it up with Hug Number Three. Mary was laughing in my arms.
“You must be huggers in Alabama.”
Must be.