By now, you’ve probably opened the package I sent for Mother’s Day. If not, SPOILER ALERT: I got you those leggings you wanted (like mine) and an oversized tunic to match.

My mom, before she was my mom. London, 1970.

Cute? Yes.

Thoughtful? Kinda.

Special? Not really.

Even the card I sent was ordinary. A few months ago, I picked out the perfect one, but then I forgot it at home on Tuesday, the day I had to USPS it all to arrive on time. #mothersdayfail

Mom, you are anything but ordinary.

So, I’ve been thinking. Why do we even send Mother’s Day gifts and cards in the first place? What we should be doing is writing thank-you letters.

I have so many reasons to thank you. I don’t even know where to start, but I feel like it’s important that I do. Even though I tell you I love you, I wonder if you know that I know how fortunate I am, how much you shaped me by being the person you are — by being a scholar and a caregiver, a feminist and a cheerleader; a speaker, a listener, a confidante.

This is in no way complete, but here’s a list of beliefs I have — things I know to be true — because of you, Mom.

1) I’ll participate. When I was in seventh grade, it was your idea to skip whatever we were doing and go see Bill Clinton on his whistle-stop tour. And in high school, when a local politician guy blew me off, you encouraged me to write a letter to the editor. You know that organization for kids called Do Something? You were (and still are) my ‘Do Something’. You empower  and inspire me to make a difference by doing.

Mother-daughter jump!

2) I’ll laugh out loud — loudly. When something tickles you, people know it. I used to get embarrassed, especially in public (“Mo-ommmm!”), but now, in my third decade as your daughter, I just join you. It’s a lot more fun. Who knew?

3) I’ll ask questions. You taught Leslie and me to speak up, always, but I can’t remember that ever being a formal conversation. We learned by listening to you. More recently, when Pop Pop’s health was failing, you refused to take “I don’t know” for an answer. You called his doctors and his aides and his nurses yourself, advocating with persistence, confidence, love.

4) I’ll plant flowers. Remember the black-eyed Susans and tiger lilies across from the old house, on that fence in front of the cornfield? I do. It’s why my Brooklyn stoop garden exists. (The snapdragons say thanks.)

Mother-daughter jump, take II! Photos by my talented bro-in-law, Matt Pendleton.

5) I’ll be good to my body. I’ve never smoked a cigarette, and I’ve never felt tempted, even through high school and college. When I was in preschool, possibly before then, you told me they were dangerous and that was The Word. You taught me to respect myself and my body and your wishes, and I heard those messages loud and clear. How’d you do that?

6) I’ll make a scene. Part of living is doing what you feel like doing, even if it’s silly to other people. I learned this from you, too. I’m specifically thinking of our power walks through your neighborhood, when we pump our arms like an aerobics class, as if we’re in front of a mirror and not passing by dining room windows.

7) I’ll jump. Related: Remember when we were in Budapest, at the baths, and you didn’t skip a beat when it was time to bare all and take a dip? Eeep! All of a sudden, I was all self-conscious and you were all “When in Budapest…” You’re right. Your why-not attitude that day, and years leading up to it, inspires me when I’m out of my comfort zone. You help me go, leap and live how the moment requires.

8) I’ll never work a nine-to-five. You love your job, and I love that. It’s not “work” to you. You believe in what you do and how it impacts other people’s lives. You’ve always been proud and supportive of my career moves, and you’ve helped me come to realize that a career should also be a strong, true passion.

9) I’ll go heavy on the exclamation points! You’re enthusiastic via email, via text, via life! Refreshing, you are!

10) I’ll introduce myself, thanks. Let’s revisit that parents’ council meeting at my very-southern college, when everyone went around the circle and the men introduced themselves and their demure wives (“I’m Jay Donough and this is my wife, Pamela.” “I’m Thad Carlton and this is my wife, Virginia.”), and then you stood and piped up, “I’m Dr. Hahn!” Go, Mom.

11) I’ll serve salmon loaf. And honey ginger chicken and apple crisp. No, not at once! And yes, I’ll remember the 2 T of Tapioca to thicken the crisp.

12) I’ll be a cheerleader. You’re an optimist, and it rubs off. If I’m nervous, I call you. If I’m scared, you’re there to say I can do it. I count on you for that, Mom, and you never let me down. You were a cheerleader in high school and in college, and you always say if it was a different time, you would have played sports… But what’s wrong with being a cheerleader? You mother that way, you know. And I’ll mother that way, too, when my time comes. All because of you.

Thanks, Mom, for everything. Love you, love you, love you. Exclamation point!

This Mother’s Day, what would you like to thank your mom for?

Also of Interest

• Call Your Mom! Wait, What Do You Mean You Already Did?
• Best All-Around Exercise for Every Post-50 Body
• Join AARP: Savings, resources and news for your well-being

See the AARP home page for deals, savings tips, trivia and more

Or at least that’s how I look at it. As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing better than the dance floor at a wedding. Old and young, experienced and not (mostly not), everyone comes together to celebrate. Six year olds hear their first Sinatra; 86 year olds hear their first Rihanna, for better or for worse.

I say better.

Dancing together, smiling together.

A few weeks ago, our DOROT Young Professionals group got a jump on wedding season with our first-ever dance lesson with Ballet Hispanico, a nonprofit that celebrates Latino culture through dance. We’ve put on a lot of successful intergenerational events — like our dinner parties — but this one brought everyone to their feet.

It was a Sunday afternoon, and we managed to gather quite a crowd: 20 older adults, 19 young professionals (in our 20s and early 30s), two Ballet Hispanico dancers, and one very charismatic instructor named AnaMaria, the director of Ballet Hispanico’s School of Dance.

The program started with an introduction to the music of Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic, with two duets by the dancers. Minus the music and AnaMaria’s voice, DOROT’s auditorium was completely silent. We were blown away, and ready to try it ourselves.

Arthur and I bust a move. Photo courtesy of Shira Cohen.

AnaMaria invited us to form a circle for three dance lessons: salsa, merengue, and bachata. We started off solo, getting a feel for the steps, and then we worked our way into pairs. For a while, Arthur (yes, of course I brought him!) watched from his wheelchair, but that didn’t last long. He loves to dance almost as much as he loves to go to the theater. I moved him closer to the circle, and helped him stand for the choruses.

As AnaMaria led us through the combinations, the energy in the room soared. We were trying and learning and laughing, together. Most of us were beginners, which took some pressure off, but really, we had checked our self-consciousness at the door. The older adults, especially, came out ready to move. We wound up following their lead.

It was a special day, and everyone in the room felt it. Val and Natasha, a married couple who had attended DOROT Young Professionals events in the past, pulled a few of us aside.

“This is wonderful.”

“Dancing with you makes us feel reenergized. It makes us feel young.”

I responded with something to the effect of, “Likewise.” It’s true. The spirit, the enthusiasm, the excitement — that doesn’t happen every day for our age group either. There was something about being together and letting go, leaving the outside world (our to-do lists, our deadlines, our wheelchairs) for a while, and just saying, “Let’s dance.”

Get Your Brain in Shape! Think faster, focus better. Brain Fitness. It’s free to start.

We don’t have a date on the calendar for our next afternoon with Ballet Hispanico — yet! — but here are some things we learned for future dance-related volunteer events:

• Remember the H20:  A few songs in, we realized we didn’t have a water station ready. We scrambled to pour cups. Dance is a real workout for all ages! Hence, hydration is key.
• Switch partners:  The lesson was a great time to mix and mingle with new people. The older adults particularly enjoyed the opportunity to dance with the Ballet Hispanico dancers. (That’s Val with their leading lady in the photo up top.)
• Turn up the tunes:  Music has all kinds of health benefits, triggering memories and emotions and reasons to move your body. We could have had a soundtrack playing lightly from the time our guests arrived.
• Give a take-away:  We handed out roses not only to the professional dance crew, but also to the older adults, as a way to say thanks. It was also meant as a reminder of our time spent together. They seemed to appreciate the gesture.

By the end, a few stars had emerged among us. Carol, who arrived late and stationed herself in the back of the room, called out over the crowd, asking AnaMaria if she could take a turn with one of their choreographers. This happened:

Click here to view the embedded video.

Shortly after, Jaime, who is originally from Argentina, requested a tango with AnaMaria. No music? He offered up his iPod. This happened:

Click here to view the embedded video.

Yep, quite a day indeed. I think we all left feeling a little lighter on our feet — and a lot warmer in our hearts.

Do you have family members or friends who love to dance? How do you help them keep moving? 

Also of Interest

• Take Your Brain for a Dance
• Phil Ramone: A Producer’s 5 Musical Masterpieces
• Join AARP: Savings, resources and news for your well-being

See the AARP home page for deals, savings tips, trivia and more

Dibi, Pop Pop, Aunt Pam, Uncle Ken

It was my first trip to Pennsylvania since Pop Pop passed away, and I was equal parts excited and apprehensive — excited because it was (and is) my favorite place on the planet; nervous because my favorite person wouldn’t be there.

My grandfather, the Bernie in my blog Arthur & Bernie, wouldn’t be in his chair in the living room, or a short walk away at the nursing home, where he spent his final year. Would it be depressing? Would the house he built with my grandmother, Dibi — now belonging to my aunt and uncle — feel kind of empty and strange?

Soon after I walked through the front door, my aunt handed me a little box.

“Here,” she said. “This is for you.”

On the top of the box was a black label that read “J. Covitch & Son,” our family’s clothing store for three generations, with “Ladies Custom Corner” in subscript. Inside was a gold leaf pendant and a stamp-sized booklet.

Maile leaves have long been a favorite of the Hawaiian people. At one time, only the ali’i (royalty) used them for leis. They considered them to have a spiritual essence which will bring good luck.

This maile leaf had been hand selected from the Island of Kauai, it continued, and was covered in 24 karat gold. “Aloha from Hawaii.”

My maile leaf

A man had given the box to my aunt a few weeks before. He brought it to the jewelry store she now manages — J. Covitch & Son, like many small-town specialty shops, went out of business years ago. He’d found it in a drawer and wondered if someone in our family might want it. Perhaps, he thought, it would mean something to one of us.

How right he was. I’ve worn it every day since.

I am so very thankful for the random act of kindness that brought the maile leaf back to our family. The man could have kept it or sold it or given it to Goodwill. But instead, he went out of his way to put it back in our hands. As timing (or maile leaf luck?) would have it, the return happened right around Random Acts of Kindness Week, and my own return to Pennsylvania.

Pop Pop always was proud of the Ladies Custom Corner. Dibi started it in 1969. She wanted a new project, as my mom, the baby in the family, neared the end of high school and the start of college. Enter: the Ladies Custom Corner, a women’s apparel nook in the back of the store, which had, until then, exclusively sold menswear. In fact, when Pop Pop’s father (my great-grandfather) Jacob founded the store, he kept the shelves stocked with work clothes for the area miners.

The ladies of the Ladies Custom Corner

The Ladies Custom Corner was a new chapter in the store’s history, and it wound up being a huge success. It quickly outgrew its racks in the back, and was moved upstairs to a full-floor space. Later, as business continued to shift, the women’s department swapped spots with the men’s, and J. Covitch & Son became primarily a women’s fine clothing store.

It’s fun to think about Dibi finding the gold maile leaves for her corner of the store. Did she spot them in a catalog or on a shopping trip here, to New York? Or was it Pop Pop who purchased them? He was stationed in Hawaii during World War II, shortly after they married. Maybe he remembered maile leaves? Maybe he was moved by the message inside?

It’s just a necklace, but it’s so much more than that. It’s another gift I didn’t know I needed. (Thank you, thank you, Aunt Pam!) Also, it’s a connection to our family’s past, and a reminder that the past and present will forever collide, and what a gift that is in itself. I wondered what it would be like going back to Pennsylvania, without Pop Pop there. But you know what? He was there. And Dibi was, too, saying aloha.

Anna in the spring

Seeing Anna in the square is like seeing my friend Arthur at the theater. It’s her happy place. She could spend hours there, watching the boyds fly up to the rooftops and down to the pavement; up to the light posts and down to the sidewalk. A neighbor friend Ellie often stops by to talk, which makes me pause and smile when I see them together. Ellen is my mom’s name, and Anna was my great grandmother’s.

Ellie and the boyds and I are not the only ones who say hi to Anna, I’m sure. There must be others who make up her world, in big ways and small, as there are others in mine. New York City turns into a village like that, full of familiar faces and personalities you come to love, especially when the weather is warm and people are outside.

But during the winter, I see a lot less of Anna, and I bet the others do, too. As I pass her spot in the square, I wonder how she’s doing, who she’s seeing, where she’s spending her hours. I’m thankful she has Magda’s company and care, but knowing she loves the outdoors, I imagine she feels cooped up if she’s spending most days in her apartment.

Isolation can be a scary reality for older adults like Anna, particularly when the temperature drops. In the final years of his life, my Pop Pop used to dread Pennsylvania winters, knowing outings to restaurants and visits with friends would “all depend on the weather,” as he’d say with a groan. The cold, the gusts, the snow, whether it was a blanket or a dusting, could keep him inside for days. And when he was still well enough to live at home, he was inside and, for hours at a time, all alone.

My stepmom Beth is a Meals on Wheels volunteer — and also a dedicated daughter to 90-year-old Dorothy, visiting at least once a day.

Fortunately, there are ways to help.

• Reach out to your family and friends. Relatives, of course, but also neighbors, congregation members or former coworkers you think might be experiencing the season by themselves. Call them, email them, knock on their doors. A quick check-in can go a long way.
• Participate in a friendly visiting program, like the one at DOROT that connected me to Arthur almost four years ago. It’s a simple concept, offering company to a senior, but it’s rewarding for everyone involved. Plus, you become their eyes and ears if health issues arise.
• Volunteer with organizations that home-deliver meals, like Meals on Wheels, and you will do so much more than serve food. In fact, researchers at Brown University discovered that states investing in meal-delivery  programs have fewer “low-care” residents in nursing homes. In other words, folks who truly need nursing-home care still get it, but healthier, more mobile people live at home or in assisted living communities, thanks to regular contact via home-delivered meals.
• Connect older adults with services they need using the Eldercare Locator (1-800-677-1116), brought into being by the U.S. Administration on Aging. Callers are put in touch with their Area Agency on Aging, whose staffers know all kinds of local programs (senior centers, transportation services) available for seniors. Some AAAs even have volunteers who call and check in on homebound seniors living alone.

Sadly, I don’t have Anna’s phone number. I don’t even know where she lives. But seeing her empty space in the square reminds me of all of the Annas I need to check in with this winter: Arthur, of course, but also some of Pop Pop’s friends, especially those living through that same Pennsylvania winter he loathed. The square without Anna also makes me think, “If only I had a magic wand, and could fly her south to be with the boyds…” I suppose I’ll have to settle with just being a good neighbor and friend. And, hey, there’s some magic in that.

With Pop Pop and my grandmother, Dibi

“I miss our talks,” I said one night, sitting by his bed. It was August and, though the doctors said he was in good health, he was miserable. During the day, the pain consumed him and I wondered where my grandfather went, but for an hour or so at bedtime, the Pop Pop I knew came back.

“I know you’re hurting, and it’s hard to think about anything else, and that’s okay. But I want you to know I miss you as a friend.”

He squeezed my hand.

“Is there someone who can fill in?”

He was joking — no one could take his place and he knew it — but there was an ounce of seriousness to the question. It turned out the end was near. A few weeks later, with my mom and me at his side, he passed away.

I miss our talks now more than ever, of course, knowing he’s not coming back. I can’t bring myself to delete my calendar alert to call him at 11:30 a.m. every day. Maybe I should, but I don’t know… I still like seeing it flash on my phone. Oh hi, Pop Pop, during my staff meeting. Oh hi, Pop Pop, during my jog.

The tree dedication program cover

I haven’t found a someone to replace him, and I’m not looking for one, but I have found a something that helps: a tree. It was a gift I never knew I needed, which is really the best kind, isn’t it? When I came home to Brooklyn after the funeral, my friends (22 of them!) had pulled together the funds to buy a commemorative tree in Prospect Park, in honor of Pop Pop and my grandmother, Dibi.

I got to pick it out — an Ironwood that sweeps across the running loop — and choose the date for the dedication ceremony, but my friends took care of the rest. The park was quiet on the Sunday of the dedication. We drank Heinekens (Pop Pop’s favorite), we ate black Russian cake (Dibi’s recipe), and we read a special prayer.

“When we have joy we crave to share / We remember them. When we have decisions that are difficult to make / We remember them,” it goes. “As long as we live, they too will live; for they are now a part of us as we remember them.”

I’ve gone to the tree since the dedication, but only a couple of times, if I’m honest. Once recently, I went alone and on my way somewhere else, which was a bad idea. I felt sad and out of sorts the rest of the day. I need to take time there, I learned. Like any visit with someone, I can’t rush through. I don’t want to. Half of a conversation is listening anyway.

The best part about the tree is just knowing it’s there — and it exists because people cared enough, and knew me well enough, to make it happen. I have a place to go where I can talk to him, where I can feel his presence and unconditional love. The next time my mom is in town, we’ll go to the tree and we’ll sit at his side again, together. And maybe someday I’ll even take my kids there, to say hi to their great Pop Pop.

With Arthur

We’ve eaten together plenty, don’t you worry. Food is very much a part of our visits. On my walks from work to his apartment, I usually pick up something for us to share — Vietnamese summer rolls, maybe, or cheese and a baguette. If the weather permits, we go to the farmer’s market nearby or to the food trucks lined up down the block. Arthur loves “everything” and so do I. (Except cheesecake. Sorry, Arthur!)

But for as many times as we’ve enjoyed food together, we’ve always eaten somewhere other than the dining room, I realized Thursday, a week before Thanksgiving, as timing would have it. Two friends of mine were coming over for pizza at his place, so eating from a TV tray in the living room, per his routine, was out of the question. I cleared a space at his table, and wheeled him over.

Shira insisted on a mini banana split due to her supposed Sandy 15. “You know, like the freshman 15,” she explained to Arthur.

The dinner was a test-run of a program my DOROT Young Professionals group is piloting this year. DOROT’s mission is to enhance the lives of the elderly, primarily those who are homebound. The idea of our program is to bring together seniors and people in their 20s and 30s for small, casual dinner parties. Meals are on us, thanks to the funds we’ve raised, and they take place in the senior’s home. The hope is to make it easy to get together and enjoy one another’s company. It’s a party for everyone with the goal of reminding older adults that we care about them and they’re not alone. It’s also a source of healing, honoring the grandparents we can no longer visit. All three of us at Thursday’s dinner had lost our grandfathers recently.

Arthur, in typical Arthur fashion, loved “everything”: the pizza, the salad and the banana splits, of course, but also the background music (Chicago and West Side Story soundtracks), the iPhone photo sharing and the conversation. He bonded with Shira over Superstorm Sandy — she, too, lost power for the week — and as I prepped dessert, she introduced him to “Call Me Maybe” with a video of her three-year-old niece belting it out. (Related: Have you watched AARP’s version? I’m still obsessed.)

Some things we learned for the dinner parties ahead:

• Keep the groups small: Three young professionals and one senior seemed like just the right number. Arthur was at his best when engaging one-on-one, as we took turns washing dishes and plating food.
• Fill everyone in: Arthur has dementia, so it’s sometimes difficult for him to answer specific questions like, “What’s your favorite play?” I should have given my friends a heads-up on that. Moving forward, we’ll encourage groups to address issues like hearing problems, recent loss of a loved one, etc.
• Plan to eat, then visit: During the meal, Arthur was focused on eating. We found that after dessert was really the best time to talk. Everyone is different, of course, but this is definitely something to consider.
• Bring flowers: Or some sort of gift to leave with the senior. “Here, these are so you’ll think of us when we’re gone,” Shira said, placing a vase of flowers on the table. “I will,” he said. “Or just don’t leave?”

There’s something special about eating around the dining room table — the act of coming together, of appreciating the ideas of home and tradition. It’s a ritual families should believe in and practice, researchers say. My DOROT friends and I say let’s remember our seniors, too — this Thursday on Thanksgiving, of course, but also next Thursday, and the Thursday after that.

Want to see more photos from our dinner? Find them on my blog, Arthur & Bernie. And if you or someone you know would like to get involved with DOROT Young Professionals, tweet me @arthurandbernie.

It’s been a little over a month since we lost my Pop Pop, the Bernie in my blog Arthur & Bernie. He was 96, so it’s hard to say it came as a shock, but somehow, it did.

The two of us, in his front yard

The road through grief is a bumpy one. To help, I put together a list of important lessons I never want to forget — things my grandfather taught me, things our relationship taught me. That way, I figured, I’d have something to hold onto. Fifty seemed like a lot at the outset, but now that I’m through, I find myself thinking of more every day.

I miss you, Pop Pop, but it sure is nice seeing you around.

26) Home is a sacred place. Pop Pop’s wish was for his house to be landmarked. We did the next best thing: We put a plaque outside the front door, and dedicated it ourselves. Official or not, home should be a landmark — the landmark — on our map. Right?

27) Eat dessert. Whenever you want. And pop a Dove dark chocolate or two in the in-between.

28) Have a firm handshake and a soft hug. Use them often.

29) Write letters…Hand-written notes trump emails any day. Bernie sent birthday cards, holiday cards and just-because cards with real messages in them (as opposed to those holiday portrait prints with “Sincerely, The Fishers” scribbled on the back.)

30) …And save letters. Pop Pop kept a shoebox full of correspondence with Dibi during their courtship. The other night, I sifted through my own box, and every other letter was from him, in his writing. It was like his voice in my ear.

31) Laugh out loud. Moe, Larry and Curley (and, later, Seinfeld) were Bernie favorites. When he watched, he wouldn’t just chuckle. He’d belly laughed so hard the neighbors could hear. Why hold it in?

Note on the episode here: My cousin Seth and his 10-year-old son Isaac watched “Pardon My Scotch” on YouTube with Pop Pop a few years back — three generations around one laptop, cracking up at jokes from the 30s. I emailed Seth to see if he remembered which episode it was exactly. It was a Sunday and he lives across the country, but within minutes, a reply popped up in my inbox with the link. Of course he remembered. “The hilarity begins around minute 12 with the opera singer…still one of Isaac’s favorite scenes of all time.”

32) Give back. When I wrote Pop Pop’s obit, I had to decide which organizations to include. They couldn’t all fit! His passion for service, I think, inspired me to seek out DOROT, the New York-based nonprofit that introduced me to my grandfriend Arthur.

33) You get what you pay for. When you shop, buy for quality, even if it means you’ve got to splurge a little.

34) Secrets are okay. Particularly, keep Goodwill purchases to yourself if you’re the granddaughter of a fine clothing store owner. No matter how amazing they are, he will not be impressed.

The portrait I keep on my desk

35.) Remember names. And stories. Make every city a small town by saying hello and making connections.

36) Grandparents were boyfriends, fiancés, newlyweds. The Greatest Generation truly is our greatest resource. They lived through wars, elections and economic crises — and they also lived through first jobs, first apartments, first loves. Scroll through Before They Were Grandparents, if you haven’t already.

37) Know how to mix a martini. I haven’t learned (or acquired a taste) yet, but someday I will, and my mom will show me the way Pop Pop showed her.

38) Read the paper. Whether it’s the hard copy (Pop Pop’s choice) or the digital subscription, staying informed should be like brushing your teeth — just part of the routine.

39) Paperwork = tedium. But necessary nonetheless. Fill it out. Send it off. Move on.

40) Ride the train. Things change, but the Amtrak remains. In 1943, Pop Pop took it to New York City for his honeymoon. Today, I take that same line. Time travel exists.

41) Become a regular. When I visited Pop Pop, a dinner at Amici’s was always on the menu. It was his dining room away from home — so much so that the owner attended his funeral.

42) Visit the cemetery. And instead of leaving small stones, a Jewish custom, leave dimes and nickels and pennies on the graves.

43) Consider the bottom line. A couple years ago, I had a big career decision to make. Do I take an exciting job even though it’s outside my industry? What will that mean for later on in my professional life? Is this the right move, right now? I talked to Pop Pop about it, and his question: “Well, what’s the bottom line?” Reality checked.

44) Listen to Tony Bennett. Prepare to leave your heart there.

Martinis to celebrate Ruth and Bernie’s 63rd wedding anniversary

45) Celebrate the small stuff. Pop Pop was a Leo, and so were a handful of his close friends. So every August, in addition to their own dinners and drinks, they held an annual Leo Party. Because!

46) Shop local. Give the small guy business when you can, even though Walmart raisin cookies are quite tasty.

47) Sit on the porch. Wine tastes better out there.

48) Put the house to bed. Shut the curtains, turn out the lights, and look around for a minute before saying goodnight. I think of Pop Pop as I close the shutters at the end of each day.

49) Tell people you love them. Say it every phone call. Write it in every letter. And if you want to, write it a few times for impact, like Pop Pop would.

50) Check-ins can be the best medicine. It’s true for the person calling and the person answering. My 11:30 a.m. call to Pop Pop was my time to stop, dial and listen. Was anything ever more important at 11:30 a.m.?

Tweet me what you learned from your grandparents or parents at #50lessons. And visit AARP Foundation to see how they’re working to combat and prevent isolation in people age 50 and over.

It’s been one month since I lost my Pop Pop, the Bernie in my blog Arthur & Bernie. He was 96, so it’s hard to say it came as a shock, but somehow, it did.

With Pop Pop

He is finally at peace after months of struggle, and for that, I am thankful. It’s difficult, though, moving on with life as usual, when I’ve never known it without him. For 30 years, Pop Pop was my grandfather, my pen pal, my friend.

One thing people say when you’re grieving is, “He lives on in you.” Or, “He will always be in your heart.” It’s supposed to be comforting. He’s not gone completely. But here’s the thing: I have a terrible memory. What if, slowly, he starts to slip away?

So I’ve put together a list of important lessons I never want to forget — things he taught me, things our relationship taught me. My hope is that some might sound familiar to my fellow grandchildren out there. And aren’t we all?

1) Never feel old. Pop Pop would shake his head at the “old people” in his nursing home. It never occurred to him that maybe he was one of them.

2) Answer the phone. I play phone tag with friends for weeks, but Pop Pop? He never let it go to voicemail. If he was around to hear the call, he’d answer.

3) Friendship is generation-less. Pop Pop never talked to me like a kid. I never talked to him like a senior. I think we both appreciated that equally.

4) Be the “other.” Within approximately 10 minutes of meeting Bernie, he’d tell you that his family was the first Jewish family to settle in his hometown. He was proud of that. Being different is good, he taught us. It’s about identity.

Ruth and Bernie, just married

5) Love arrives when you least expect it… For Pop Pop, it turned up on a blind date.

6) … And when it’s right, it never leaves. The blind date turned into 68 years of marriage with Ruth, my Dibi.

7) Wear blue, black and gray. Browns and tans, they come and go. But these classics withstand the test of time, he told me. And I believe him. He owned a fine clothing store, after all — and donned skinny ties long before Don Draper.

8) Follow and lead. Dibi was a ballet dancer so, naturally, she led on the dance floor. She also carried conversations, organized meals and arranged their social calendar. When Alzheimer’s disease stole her away, though, Pop Pop stepped up to the plate, strong silent type be damned. It was his turn.

9) Watch (and rewatch) “Fiddler on the Roof.” L’chaim, l’chaim! To life!

10) Find your routine. Make rituals for yourself, and keep them. But remember: Friday nights are for pizza (Penn Gables, if you’re in the neighborhood), and Sunday mornings are for Meet the Press.

11) Have a signature drink. I ordered Penn Gables for us once, with two Heinekens. I put my name on the order (just “Laura”), but when I got there, they said, “Bernie Covitch?” I asked how they knew. “Heinekens? It’s got to be Bernie.”

12) Family IS everything. Pop Pop anticipated family visits for months and months. Nothing made him happier than seeing us all together. When I was there in August, I asked if he ever wished that we all lived in town, that we weren’t so spread out. “No,” he said without missing a beat. “You visit.”

13) Invite newcomers. Family is everything, yes, but it should be open to everyone. Case in point: Michele, Pop Pop’s caregiver. She was so much a part of the family by the end, thanks to Pop Pop’s affection, I programmed her in my phone with our last name.

14) Bananas are for splitting. He’d take one half, I’d take the other, and then we’d slice over cereal. One small cup of coffee, one piece of toast with jelly. Breakfast, done.

15) Make the bed. Also part of the morning routine. No question. The day will be better.

16) Run. Or find the thing that gets you moving. It’s never too late. Pop Pop started running in his 60s,and acquired more than a few “oldest finisher” plaques, which he displayed proudly.

Bernie’s 95th birthday surprise, complete with t-shirts for the Ninety-5K we ran in his honor

17) Take off your headphones. Granted, Pop Pop ran in the days before iPods, but still. Jog or walk or drive without music once and a while. You might find you like what you hear.

18) Surprises are the best gifts. Especially when they involve masks, costumes or homemade T-shirts.

19) Surround yourself with encouragement. On the shelf by Bernie’s living room chair, he kept a 5×7 pillow with the following message stitched in: “Old age is not for sissies.” Right on.

20) Share your history. Also next to the living room chair: stacks of photo albums sorted by trips, special occasions and eras (“The War Years,” “The Store”). It was his way of organizing memories, and being able to relive them whenever he wanted. We spent hours together walking through his past.

21) Cry. Whenever you feel like it. Especially when you’re with other people, so you can laugh together afterwards.

Hand-woven panel from a market in Chichicastenango, Guatemala

22) Savings are for travel. My grandparents used their retirement to see the world — Portugal, Peru, China, Turkey, and the list goes on. They loved their small Pennsylvania community, but they understood the value of discovering a local and global perspective.

23) When in Rome, buy art. Or a tablecloth, or a leather bag that will never go out of style. The point: When you travel, don’t come home with tchotchkes. (Or, only tchotchkes. Pick up some funny things!)

24) Look away. Choose your battles, and the ones you leave out? Don’t let them get you down. It was probably Pop Pop’s favorite family expression: “Just look away.”

25) Make lists. And not just of to-dos. Keep lists of anything and everything significant, preferably in chronological order with dates, but that’s not mandatory. I have a feeling he would have loved this one.

Come back next week for the last 25 lessons and in the meantime, tweet me what you learned from your grandparents or parents at #50lessons. And visit AARP Foundation to see how they’re working to combat and prevent isolation in people age 50 and over.

“Pop Pop = awesome!”

I figured my grandfather, the best keeper-in-toucher I know, would get a kick out of hearing from everyone. He used to love to write and receive letters, and though he’s lived in the same small town his whole life, you’d never know it by his address book. His friends are everywhere.

So I was kind of shocked by Pop Pop’s response. Or, non-response. I presented the poster to him on the big day — “Look, Pop Pop! All of these people are wishing you a happy birthday! Even the president of the AARP Foundation!” — and he barely said a thing. Maybe he was tired? No big deal, I thought, we can read through it together tomorrow.

But he wasn’t interested the next day, or the day after that. The sign stayed on his dresser, untouched, the rest of my visit.

Pop Pop isn’t himself these days, I found out. He’s in pretty good health, but he’s pretty much miserable, and it breaks my heart. It’s been a year since our family realized we couldn’t give him the care he needed. He’s been living in a nursing home ever since.

“Just put me in the grave,” he yells over and over again. Or, “Throw me on the floor, why don’t you?” He’s uncomfortable wherever he is — in his wheelchair, in his recliner, at the dinner table — and he shouts it. Of course he doesn’t care about a silly happy-birthday sign. Everything hurts.

With Pop Pop on the porch

There’s a lot of talk these days about longevity, about discovering the secret to a long life. Being there with my favorite 96-year-old, seeing him struggle and yank and bite (yes, bite), I couldn’t help but think that maybe the secret is to get out early. Why live longer, for this? I also wondered whether I had overstayed my welcome. He didn’t seem comforted by my company, at all. Was I making it harder? Perhaps it was too much.

But by the end of my visit, I had discovered some things. Pop Pop may not be interested in letters and photo albums and newspapers, the way he used to be, but he does like crossword puzzle hour (what he calls “Discussion Group”) before dinner. He also likes to go outside - even if he protests at first - and he likes to talk at night, after the aides have transferred him to bed and it’s finally quiet.

“My sweet honey doll,” he said one evening, as he drifted off to sleep. “Oh, my sweet honey doll…”

Life looks different for Pop Pop now. As his granddaughter, his friend and his advocate, I have to realize that, and stay as positive as I can. It was tough moving him to a nursing home facility a year ago, but I’m thankful he’s not alone. It’s my job now to listen hard, and try to find the little things that bring him joy and comfort. It’s a new routine, a new language almost. It may be hard to understand at first, but I have to adjust and continue appreciating every moment we have together. It truly is a blessing, being a grown-up grandchild. I’m almost 30, and I’m still his honey doll.

My aunt and uncle from Cleveland drove to see Pop Pop on Sunday. “He proudly showed us your amazing poster and said how much he appreciated your visit,” she wrote in an email afterwards.

Really? Well. I was kind of shocked, again. I guess not everything has changed.

Arthur and Laura share a laugh

My friend Arthur and I like going to the theater together. So, this past Friday when we were hanging out, I read him the upcoming schedule for our favorite company.

“Sigh-ray-no de Burger-ac,” I fumbled, a few shows down the list. The description said it was a timeless classic with some of the wittiest lines ever written for the stage. But, to my former-English-major embarrassment, I was completely butchering the title.

“Kai-ran-o de Bur-jer-ack? Is that it?” I held it up so he could take a look.

“Cyrano de Bergerac! Of course! It’s a classic,” he said before launching into a plot synopsis.

“How do you know everything, Arthur?” He shrugged.

“I’ve been alive for a long time.”

Arthur is 87, and I’m 29. I guess we’re an unlikely pair, but that’s okay by me. He’s one of my closest friends. We talk about everything — our families, our careers, our loves; his memories of the Navy and of Brooklyn, where he grew up and where I now live. Why I’d ever choose an apartment outside the great borough of Manhattan is lost on him, but otherwise, our outlooks align. Or if they don’t, we discuss them and debate them and laugh.

Our friendship started three years ago, with an online ad. An organization called DOROT (meaning “Generations” in Hebrew) was looking for people to visit homebound seniors. The commitment was an hour a week, for a minimum of one year. I filled out an inquiry, and after an interview and a reference check, DOROT paired me with Arthur. He was a retired English professor, I was told, born and raised in New York, whose wife had passed away a few years before. I was an aspiring journalist still relatively new to town, from a family of academics. We hit it off.

I feel comfortable with Arthur and with seniors, I think, because I’ve always been close with my grandparents, especially with my grandfather Bernie, who I call Pop Pop. He was born in 1916, and will turn 96 next month. It’s a special gift, being a grandchild in my 20s. I’ve had him in my life through years of big changes — new jobs, new apartments, new relationships — and he’s always been there to offer his perspective and advice. He lives in a small western Pennsylvania town that’s a six-hour train ride from the city. I visit as often as I can (usually every couple months), and I call him each day at 11:30 a.m., right before his lunchtime.

When I talk about my friendships with Arthur and my Pop Pop, I get a lot of oohs and ahhs and you’re-so-sweets. Maybe. But I’m no hero. I’m not Abina, Arthur’s home aid, who bathes him and cooks for him and puts him to bed every night. I’m not one of the 40 million caregivers out there like my Aunt Pam, who manages Pop Pop’s day-to-day routine. I’m not doing the heavy lifting. But I am doing some of the lifting, some of the uplifting. I’m a friend — someone to whom they can speak candidly and openly, someone who treats them like people instead of patients. I love their company, and I make absolutely sure they know it.

I’m not alone in all this. With people living longer than ever before, there are thousands and thousands of grown-up grandchildren just like me, who respect their elders and want to make the world a better place to grow old. We hear a lot about caregiving from people my parents’ age, but we don’t hear enough from people in their 20s and 30s. I think it’s time for my generation to pipe up and join the conversation because we’re here, too. And we’re in it together.