Just 10 days ago, I wrote about my affinity for working with seniors and the gifts they bring to the work I do. I would be remiss if I didn't explain that my genuine affection and admiration for seniors extends to my personal life as well. Two days ago, I lost a good friend, Florence, who died after a brief decline at the age of 91 (she would have claimed "92" as her birthday is only a handful of weeks away). I don't think she'd mind my using her real name. I can hear her now, a a twinkle in her clear blue eyes: "After all, it's me you're talking about, isn't it?"
To know Florence was to know optimism, wit, humor, and a tenacity for living.
She worked as an architect at a major university, and was actively involved in campus projects until her last years; in fact, at her death, she still maintained an office on campus.
I knew Florence in only a personal capacity--which was rich and fulfilling on its own. Over the years, I met many of her colleagues who not only held her in awe for her professional longevity but also for her work ethic, high standards and what can only be described as the ability to connect with you.
In conversation with Florence, you were met with her steady gaze and an intent expression that said I'm listening, I want to hear every word. When she spoke, it was meaningful, interesting, full of recollections of time passed. She was blessed with an elephantine memory; and she was also blessed with the restraint of someone who knew just how much of a story would be of interest. I never knew Florence to be repetitive or boring. And even if she had been, her charm would have eased away any ill feelings over it.
Florence's ever-ready answer for any suggestion of adventure, travel, engagement, performance, discovery or renewal was: Yes! Her enthused, "Wouldn't that be fun!" welcomed most social engagements with gusto. I never knew her to say no--to any discovery to come.
She travelled extensively in her later years, often to Austria or Italy, and on a regular basis to her home territories of New York City and the Pennsylvania farm country. If you ever needed a review of the current Broadway theatre offerings, Florence could fill you in. Likewise with the current symphony performances and latest best-selling authors. She maintained her membership with the Metropolitan Museum, and delighted in treating her guests to lunch at the patron's dining room there. The view of Central Park was magnificent from our table, and she seemed equally excited to see it as her guests.
Florence seemed, to me, to squeeze every drop out of every day. She paced herself as needed, but seemed, until only the past several months, to be on a mission to live every day fully.
This past May, on Mother's Day, she invited a handful of guests to join her at home. I had been out of touch for several weeks, but knew that she had been in a skilled nursing facility for physical therapy. What I didn't know was that she had not returned home to live by Mother's Day: "I sprung myself for the day!" she chuckled, hosting a catered lunch in her own dining room. It was typical Florence. She was determined. She usually got what she wanted.
In the face of age, Florence was the definition of grace. A realist without being morbid, Florence simply seized each day as she was able, and invited her friends along for the ride. She lived in a lovely, generous and dignified way. She will be missed beyond what words can express.
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