A Party for a Good Woman

An entire NYC building celebrates the Queen of the Old Ladies

Sad News

Friday morning, I gasped when I glanced at the subject line on an email, time-stamped 3:16 am. The sender, David, is a fellow resident in my New York building; it’s 9:16 pm there. I knew immediately this was about our mutual 104-year-old friend.

I read the rest of the email through tears:

Marge passed away just 39 minutes ago in the hospital. We are devastated. More another time.

“We” is David and his spouse, Andrew. They, like me, adore Marge. We are part of her inner social orbit. Full-time residents, the guys are also unofficial Keepers of the Roof — the place Marge loves most. David will later tell me, “We were so hoping she’d have one more time up there.”

I was in Paris when the email arrived, due to fly into New York in a few days. I thought I’d have one more time with her in person.

At least we had that one last video chat. Sati loaned us her cell so we could FaceTime. Marge had just returned to the apartment she loves — after slipping in the bathroom, hip replacement surgery and several weeks in rehab.

Other than the fact that she temporarily needed round-the-clock help (“until I get my walking back”), she seemed — amazingly — back to her old self. She was delighted to see me and smiled even more broadly when I switched the camera view to Rocky’s face.

Spunky and clearly in charge of her own life, Marge responded to my amazement with, “I still have all my marbles.” She planned to call Wolfgang’s next, to order filet mignon with mushroom sauce, asparagus on the side.

How could she be gone?

Three days later.

Marge is on my mind constantly. Everything reminds me of her.

I pass by the oyster stand. Marge ordered oysters on our first date.

I walk Rocky. Marge bought him a faux-shearling coat and kept a plush squeaky toy in her apartment so she could play with him when we visit.

I take a bath. Before she fell, Marge was having our super measure for a walk-in tub. The last day we spoke, she told me they had installed an elevator chair instead.

I know this is the way of grief, but I rail nonetheless. Death is cruel and finite.

What should I write about her? I speak stories my head. There’s so much. Where do I start?

Then I realize: I don’t have to say everything, just write something.

Marge is frequently in my writing. She is one of “my old ladies,” a brigade of much-older women who have, over the last 30 or so years, become part of my “social convoy” — the rag-tag collection of humans who’ve accompanied me on the road of my life. My old ladies, 20 to 25 years older than me, will take the off-ramp before my journey ends. In the meantime, they share how they are navigating territory I’ve yet to reach.

Sometimes, I just write about Marge. In a piece about her 104th birthday, I dubbed her “Queen of My Old Ladies.”

Yes, Marge will continue to “live on” in my heart. I talk about all my old ladies in the present tense. I lose them but not their spirit.

And yet, I miss Marge terribly right now. She would understand that I’m sad, but given her quick wit, she probably also would say, “Well, it can’t have come as a total shock, Melinda! I am 104!”

A Good Woman in a Good House

Marge was born in 1918, in the midst of the last pandemic. Her great-grandfather rode for the pony express — a fact she shared in a conversation about “wishing” she had asked her grandmother more about him and her life as a child.

“But I didn’t. Because when you’re young, you think only of yourself. And you don’t realize that people won’t always be there.”

I am no longer young and therefore under no such illusion! I knew Marge wouldn’t always be here. So, I peppered our chats with questions about her past and her opinions. I wish I had asked more.

In a way, though, the details of Marge’s life are less important than what I have learned about her since we first met eight years ago.

She valued goodness and responsibility and gravitated to those who did the right thing: took kind, quiet actions to better others’ lives. Perhaps that’s why she so often used the word “good” to describe people she liked and respected:

“This is a good house” (our 160-unit co-op).

“They are good men” (David and Andrew, who lovingly looked out for her).

Tyler, the personal trainer who visited twice a week, was “a good man.” Sati, was “a good woman.” She did Marge’s laundry and cleaning, joined her on outings, and was grateful for the immaculate hand-me-downs from Marge’s closet that she shipped to relatives in a far-away country.

Marge was a good woman — the best — open, gracious, generous, compassionate and curious. She knew about everyone’s family. She remembered details of my life I’d already forgotten! She never sought companionship or compliments; she earned both.

You always knew where you stood with Marge. When I brought her gourmet chocolate from Paris, she was grateful but returned them nonetheless (“They have no taste”). Thereafter, I stuck to the bags of Dove minis from our local CVS.

Marge was authentic to the core. When a Catholic charity sent her an appeal for “unwanted children,” she wrote back to the priest whose name appeared at the bottom of the letter, suggesting that his church reverse its policy on birth control. “Maybe then there won’t be so many children who aren’t wanted!”

On Thursday evening, when Andrew and David told one of our doormen that Marge had passed, he sobbed in sincere grief. Marge was loved by all who knew her.

I didn’t realize just how loved or important Marge was until David told me that the Board of Directors of our co-op was “planning something” for her.

“We know she wouldn’t have wanted people sitting around being sad,” said David. “She would want a party.”

And what better tribute to a good woman than to have an entire building celebrate you? Not a wake, where people get drunk and maudlin. Not a shiva, where mourners sit on wooden benches and suck down bagels and lox. A REAL party!

If there’s a Heaven, Marge is in it.

And if she’s peeking down at those she left behind and who now mourn and miss her (including readers who tell me they “love” her), I know she’s smiling. She certainly made good on her pledge to the physician who shepherded her through elderhood:

“I promised Dr. Smiles I wouldn’t die young!”

Rest in peace, Marge. No one deserves it more.

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