Wednesdays With Ira

He and I share a common love. So even though we had never met, his daughter arranged for us to spend an afternoon together.

What would you imagine from a person who will celebrate his 101st birthday this July? None of that applies to my new friend Ira.

Recently he was hospitalized with Covid. I am told his only complaint was that he couldn't get the Yankee games on TV.

 I rummaged through stacks of baseball cards I hadn't laid eyes on in probably a decade. Reminders of the 1950's. And even some from my dad's youth in the 1920's. Baseball what I perceived would be the connecting tissue for our conversation. These cards the ice breaker. 

Only they were mostly irrelevant. We both wore our Yankee hats, as I pulled my chair close to his, since I was informed his hearing was going, going almost gone. My natural speaking voice is nearly a shout and that proved well more than sufficient. 

But, honestly, I hardly got a word in. For nearly two hours I learned of  the life and times of a man who was born shortly after the war to end all wars ended. Actually, I was brought back even further to Cliffside Park in the first decade of the 20th century. Stories of his father's arrival in the United States, his dad’s work history, the depression and its impact on Ira's family. Tales of Ira's marriage, of his travels to Cuba, to Barcelona. The people he met along the way, the meals he ate, the hotels he stayed in.

This is not what 100 is supposed to be. I was witness to my mom's decade long battle with dementia before she passed away at 99. There in body only. Ira was the North Pole to my mom's South.

My son often informs me I must have lived in the admissions building at my college for two years, a not so subtle dig at my total lack of recall of those years, and really of my drawing a virtual blank to most of what transpired before the last 15 minutes. I think Ira could remember the names of all the neighbors on his block in the 1930's. And the names of their pets.

When it was time to go, when Ira finally hit the pause button, I managed to ask him about the first Yankee game he attended. He spoke of being too poor growing up to even own a baseball mitt, let alone go to a big league game. It was a stark reminder for me to place Ira’s youth in the heart of the depression and all that meant.

As I rose to leave, Ira asked when I would next return. I felt certain I had only scratched the surface of a century worth of experiences just begging to be told.

And while it might not be Wednesday afternoons with Ira, I do hope my friend and I hang out again soon. 

As long as he let's me talk at least a little Yankee baseball.